


The Gift of The Grey

by ginger_green



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blight Cure, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age Lore, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Weird Plot Shit, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:10:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: After the war, Anders and Hawke try their best adapting to relative peace until the grim past finally catches up with them. After escaping a group of mysterious assassins, they decide to travel to Weisshaupt in hope of meeting the Hero of Ferelden and recovering a cure for the Blight. But, as usual, things don't go according to plan.





	1. don't fetch your spies (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> tags updating as the whole thing progresses, beware sudden changes  
> also it's my first long read and I'd really appreciate, well, any feedback really. even 'it FUCKING SUCKS' would help.  
> have a pleasant reading :3

"Inquisitor," Varric called from across the hall. "You may wanna take a look at this."

At this late hour Skyhold was quiet spare for the watchers' call, horses huffing and snorting in their stables, ravens croaking in the attics and on the rooftops. Mistress Adaar erupted from the dark, her figure shaped of shadows. Soft rustle followed her giant silhouette. Silent footsteps of the mountain, inescapable depth of ever-knowing eyes. Varric felt nervous when she approached like that. He could not get rid of this feeling no matter how hard he tried convincing himself Adaar was the same calm, reliable woman with an odd sense of humor both in the dark and under the sun. He preferred her in daylight.

Suppressing anxiety, he clenched his fingers and drew in air through his teeth. Adaar's shadow danced around him on the floor, quenching in the torchlight.

"What is it, Varric?"

He handed her a short letter he was thumbing in his hand. The seal was broken. The note attached to it was written in Leliana's hand.

"Nightingale came to me about an hour ago," the dwarf said. "Seemed suspicious, so she took the liberty of reading it. Does she ever sleep, by the way?"

"The day she does we'll know something's not right," Adaar chuckled. She proceeded to open the letter, leaning against the pillar with a torch so that the light fell right onto the yellow parchment in her hands.

Varric shifted at her side. The air felt cool and wrong.

 

_'Inquisitor,_

_Do not bother fetching your spies, we've never met in person and, for your integrity and my safety, I hope we never will. You've heard of me, as have I of you. I know your soldiers helped Kirkwall City Guard withstand the assault from the Prince of Starkhaven. He seeks those connected to a dangerous Fereldan apostate, a mage behind the explosion of Kirkwall Chantry and death of the Grand Cleric._

_I am the said apostate. It is my fault the Inquisition had to intervene in Kirkwall's siege. It is my fault good people died there, people who once protected me and gave me shelter._   _Words wouldn't help but for what it's worth, I'm sorry. For Kirkwall and for the losses your men have suffered. Yet I am also grateful._

_Word has it you've been kind to mages in Redcliffe. They wouldn't care for my opinion but you are their last chance for independence. You gave them harbor when nobody else would. You saved many lives. Thank you._

_It isn't much but still, within this letter you'll find something I have crafted in result of my recent studies. Please take it as a small token of my gratitude. I know what people say about you, Inquisitor. About us. Should anything happen, there will be light for you in the dark. For now, I pray that other mages of Orlais and Ferelden find an ally in you, as (unintentionally) did I._

_Regards,_

_A._

_P.S: Hawke should be in Skyhold by now, though he did not tell me when he's coming back. Please take care of him. I love him and I'll be waiting him home.'_

 

"Well, isn't that special..." Lady Adaar studied the letter as if it was an exotic bird which straight from the sky landed on her fingertips. Briefly, Varric caught an excited smirk in her eyes. It unnerved him. It was something childish and creepy in a woman seven feet tall and capable of shooting fireballs. Seemingly ignorant of his unrest, Adaar leaned across the dining table to find what was initially folded within the letter. It was an amulet. A round chunk of dormant lyrium, refined and jeweled with twine, thin branches and roots of some sort. It was glowing and cool to the touch. Varric did not want to think of it but the rustic beauty of this thing somehow charmed whoever was looking at it. Made them willing to touch it. Some weird magic shit, no doubt. Might be useful. Or deadly. Adaar caressed the trinket - _pretty!_ \- and lowered it in her pocket.

She then inspected Varric with that all-engulfing stare from above and asked, "What do you think of all this?"

"I don't know what to think," he sighed. His tired gaze rested upon the quenching flame, crackling wood tearing drops of flammable oil down onto the floor. Behind his eyes, somewhere in the middle between then and now, memories darted in the corners of his mind. His heart ached like a sore muscle, tired of worrying. Old friend, said Nightingale. Bull-sodding-shit.

But that's past. Even if... well, that wouldn't matter. Not to the Inquisitor.

"You see," he offered softly, "right there is the problem. Blondie doesn't know when to sit tight and not stick his long nose where it doesn't fit. He makes a mess, tries to fix it, makes it even worse, then tortures himself about it."

"Sounds like someone we both know." Adaar smiled at him, and he caught that same smirk in her eyes as before. Creepy.

"At least Hawke doesn't blow up chantries," he huffed. "But maybe that's why they're still together. Or because of the robes. Mages are living fashion statements."

"Do you think we could trust him?"

Varric's face did not flinch. "I already told you what I know about Blondie. The tricky thing is, he's not just another rebel--shit, even rebels don't know what he is. Whatever you've heard, it's only half of it. He's out there and he offers help. He is also badshit crazy. That's all I know. As a friend, I'll give you the same advice I gave Hawke: maybe, just _maybe_ getting involved with a possessed mage is a bad idea."

Adaar studied him with a piercing gaze. Shit, it could probably drill a hole between his eyes. Withstanding this inspection was probably the hardest thing Varric had done today. And that included travelling a dozen miles, fighting off demons, and parleying his way through a crowd of really pissed-off tavern patrons.

"You sure you don't know anything else?"

"You want full profile, ask Hawke. He's the one with... expertise." Varric waved without any particular expression. "Anyway, the letter's for you, so I thought I should see it actually reach your hands. Knowing Nightingale, I can't say if it's a favor."

Adaar smiled with just a corner of her mouth, cocked her head, playfully light. "Do you ever sleep, Varric?"

He tried his best to smile back. "Good night, Inquisitor."

She nodded and disappeared in twilight as silently as approached. Varric was left alone in the main hall, staring into the fire, listening to the sounds in the night. Him dodging questions did not escape the Inquisitor's all-reaching sight. He knew that.

In truth, he knew more about Blondie than he wanted to. Hawke took a great deal of care making sure nobody ever finds him, but if you know the right people you can find just about anything. And Varric knew a lot of people.

After Meredith's defeat, Anders took a small group of his allies out of the Free Marches. He and Hawke led them south, aiding libertarian mages where they could. Their main advantage was public outrage after what happened in Kirkwall; even regular folk at times admitted the templars were stepping on everyone's toes. But they had a problem. No mage rebellion, however striving for victory, was a match for an organized templar army. Rather than following one lead, they scattered into groups and became partisans, living in the woods and attacking from ambush. This is where Anders and the Champion took their chance for redemption.

Rumor said they used Isabela's contacts to ship mages across the Waking sea and further north, away from the Chantry's reach. Varric's first guess was Rivain and Tevinter, but really they could be as far as fog forests of Seheron for all he knew. These new settlers, in turn, became rebel outposts beyond the southern lands. A tiny association has grown into an elaborate network of scouts who used their own resources as well as the black market to support the divided mages' war effort. They never stayed anywhere long, never fought an open battle, never left any traces except caches and ciphered messages. And they kept rescuing. Any mage who wanted a safe passage out of Ferelden or Orlais would eventually find it:  _there will be light for you in the dark._ Others who would stay and fight were now able to keep track of their allies, to receive shelter, supplies, maps with secret passages, notes from the sympathizers. Mage-friendly families now had a resemblance of protection.

It was not all flowers and rainbows, of course. For instance, nobody was certain if that network even existed. Varric tried asking Hawke and received a shady 'you'll see one day', nothing more. Either they were royally good at hiding or the stories were just that - stories. Secondly, if the network did exist, only those desperate enough would involve themselves into helping it. Because it's Blondie. If he is hiring, you know it will be bad. If they existed, they were uncompromising rebels with nothing to lose and no place to go. Ready to kill and die. Varric was not a specialist but even he saw such attitude could not be healthy.

There also were dark rumors among villagers in Hinterlands. Something about missing children. But that could be anything, given the current mess.

It was a bad sign, knowing so much. An insult to Varric's proud neutrality. And the fact that he did not tell the Inquisitor about it all was only more irritating. She was a friend and deserved better, never mind that the Inquisition could benefit from her knowledge. But for as long as the secret was kept, Anders' network could operate under everyone's noses without acquiring confidingly official status. Varric well understood that, and it bothered him.

In truth, Varric was a compulsive liar. No matter how he went on about Anders being a walking disaster, truth never changed. He was only good at caring for three things: his secrets, his crossbow, and his friends. Even if they were crazy.

He lowered himself on the table, took a deck of cards and tossed it with one hand. The upper one was a crowned griffon. He rolled a dice, and its rattling stopped facing up number seven.

He might have to tell this story someday. Certain things just happen even if you try avoiding them. It wouldn't be fair otherwise. Hawke was his friend, and Anders was... well, something.

That night, Varric did not know yet how that particular story shall end. He did not know it will only start in three years from now. It will be a story written in blood on the walls of an old fortress. A story of an ancient order, a grim secret, and a certain someone who picked a wrong time to turn up in a wrong place.


	2. mockingbird song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: death, blood  
> *sighs* the amount of references in this chapter has officially exceeded all reasonable levels

"Argh!.."

"Shh, hold up. One more to go."

"Sorry, I--ouch!"

"Sit still. It's healing, not torturing. How in Andraste's name did you end up on a tree in nothing but your underpants?"

"It's... a long story."

The morning sun bathed a tiny room in gentle shades of gold and peach-pink, notching romance over the sterile environment it was providing. Anders dunked his hands into the wash basin and wiped them with a clean cloth. He assessed his finished work. The young man sitting on a bed before him used to be a wild wreck of scratches, bruises and anxious mimics. Spasms of neurosis crooked his agile figure. Now he was patched up, bandaged where it was needed and, judging by radiant blush on his cheeks, fairly embarrassed of himself.

"Thank you," he uttered with an effort. Anders chuckled and pretended to be in need of something from the top shelf behind his back. With great haste, his guest pulled down his ruined undergarments and changed into a clean, dark robe. Good healer takes care of his patients, and that includes not allowing them to walk around butt-naked in chilly weather.

Back in the years of war, this man used to help him get some illegal job done in Highever. One of Anders' contacts found him in a village long way north. Lone apostate is easy prey for many; this one somehow managed to stay out of trouble for quite a while. He has always been by himself, though having connections in the underworld. Maker knows what he had to do just to stay alive. Locals described him as aloof and secretive, seldom appearing on his doorstep, primarily at night. After the fighting has ceased, a special somebody got him a place of apprentice in the newly set College of Enchanters. Ravens are singular as a rule; Anders never met him in person. Did not think it necessary. _This_ was certainly different from what he had expected.

"Don't get me wrong," he noted, "my husband and I will be making fun of you forever. But on the other hand, how else will you bond with others? Tree-humping is a place to start."

"I wasn't... ugh!" The man tried to stand but stumbled, his face a grimace of pain. Anders rushed to his side, gently lifted him back onto the bedside. "Thank you, Master."

"Don't call me that. I'm not..." Something caught his attention, and he stopped. "Whatever. You can stay here. When you want to get underway, head down the hill. Three miles west from here, there's a village called Grinsorrow. When you reach it, you'll find a woman named Verilia. Tell her I said hello. She'll get you through the woods to another hideout. My friend from the College of Enchanters will meet you there and see that you make it in one piece."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Perhaps." The mage smiled. "Let's hope you'll be slightly more dressed next time."

He left his guest to sleep but kept the door ajar, just in case. The narrow stairs creaked under his feet as he descended into the living room - or what was supposed to be their living room but over the past months became a lair of chaos decorated with dried herbs, stashed supplies, and occasional patches of cat fur. All this mess, stocked in shifty piles, surrounded an old armchair in which Hawke and three cats were indulging in a late-morning nap. One of the cats nested on Hawke's head, her tail lazily brushing the bridge of his aquiline nose. Anders leaned against the wall and watched.

He will never get used to it, the way things turned out. Always a miracle, his Champion, their home. Birds chirping on the windowsills. Green shrubs covering burnt ground. No clinking of armor, no stomping of horses. Wild flowers. Pink sunrises. Healing and salvation.

He shook his head. Hawke was staring at him, one eye opened.

"Is he alright?" he asked, voice sleepily hoarse.

"Yeah," Anders nodded. "He is."

They stared at each other for a minute before giving up and bursting in choked laughter. The cat on Hawke's head meowed and hopped down onto the floor.

"I... I walk into those bushes, certain it's a bear or a wolf... I look up and... he's there! Right above my head! In his underwear..." Silent laughter shook Hawke's whole body, his face shining with childish excitement. He always laughed with his whole self, his eyes, his shoulders. Even his beard. Anders slowly made his way through stacks of wooden crates, trying his best not to knock anything.

"Don't be so mean," he scolded with a chuckle. "Poor man has been through enough, let him at least have his trees!"

Hawke nudged the remaining cats to scram from his lap and spread his arms. Anders sunk into gentle warmth, his palms pressing against Hawke's shoulders. Rough fingers running through his hair. Windburned lips counting pulse in a sweet spot under his chin. Eyelashes trembling. Slow, deep exhales, Hawke's chest lowering under his hand. Soft clothes that smell of smoke. Anders breathes in and tries to remember, for the moment is short and the day is young.

"I'll need to check up on him," he mutters under breath, but Hawke just hugs him tighter and borrows his nose into the golden of Anders' hair. Anders wrestles with him and sinks, sinks down into the sweet dark of their clothing, the dark of Hawke's eyes, skin and hair. Light strokes on his back. Hawke's breath on his forehead. Vision turning hazy as he comes to realize that he has been up all night, and that he is tired and wants to sleep. 

"I really need to get going." He slipped out of the armchair, resenting the cool draught tickling the back of his neck. Hawke made an upset grimace. "There is still much to be done before he leaves. I think I'll write Verilia a letter, actually. She's been waiting for me to show up. Said she has some disturbing news from Winter Palace."

"You're still keeping an eye on the Inquisitor?" Hawke's eyes lit with interest. Anders shrugged.

"Her decisions affect the entire world, never mind she's the first mage whose authority the Chantry has recognized. Of course I'm keeping an eye on her."

One of the cats found its way back on Hawke's lap. He patted the purring beast and scratched lovingly between its ears.

"Look at you," he noted in a low voice. "Master of Ravens has eyes everywhere."

"Don't call me that."

He opened a window to let in cold rays of the autumn sun. For as far as his eye could see, the woods scattered across the hills, their crimson crowns interluded by dark emeralds of pine, bright yellow and sinister ochre of plane trees. The sole image distorting this peaceful landscape was the green scar in the sky, a patch of otherworldly light forever trapped under the wrong stars. For many - a reminder of a man who thought himself god and a woman who changed the world. For Anders - more of a gravestone erected in memory of war.

He never thought it would be easy, looking with hope into the new world. But it was hard to realize that these red flashes in the distance were not flames. That the wind rustling among the leaves would not bring the sound of a war horn, of a distant scream, of a moan that a man exhales with his last breath. Peace just seems unrealistic after a long bloodshed. It has been two years, and Anders was still adjusting to that change.

Ravens don't sing without relevance.

"Mockingbirds."

"What?"

"No. Nothing."

Their guest left after noon - not before Anders shoved a bag packed with fresh bread and healing herbs into his hands. He seemed agitated, anxious to reach his new home. Anders showed him the landmarks concealing a rocky footpath, the means of descending from the hilltop. There would be a spring nearby, Anders said, where he and Hawke took their drinking water. After that, the path to the west is clear.

He watched the man stumble down the cliff, slowly, in careful steps. He suddenly thought he had never bothered to ask where the man came from. Everything came tumbling down after the rebellion - but everyone comes from somewhere. Perhaps he was an escapee forgotten in the heat of battleday's dawn. Or he was sent away for some Circle business, only to return and find his gilded cage reduced to ashes. Revolution is always loss, destruction, and more loss. Sometimes, only ravens are left to pick up all that remains.

The door to their cabin was wide open upon his return. The wind howled in the chimney and caressed sheets of parchment on the floor. Anders looked around and found no one in the living room, spare for cats.

"Hawke?.." He made a few steps to peek into their bedroom; nothing. He even went upstairs to check his cabinet, though usually Hawke kept his humble person out of there.

"Hawke!" He was starting to worry. They would normally leave each other warned if one of them was going somewhere; disappearance was too short of kidnapping, drowning, or being executed by a rogue ex-templar. Anders picked up his staff on the way outside. Their cabin stood in a clearing hidden by large rocks, the only two reasonable ways out being the one Anders has seen their guest to and another on the opposite side of the lane, in the backyard. Carefully, he approached the second footpath. The woods were quiet. Shadows ran silently through the moss. Somewhere in the distance, water splashed and murmured its icy song. Anders followed the path one foot at a time, ready to strike an invisible enemy.

Something cracked above his head. A thin branch fell under his feet.

He threw his head back and looked up. Hawke looked back at him from a tree. He was wearing his underpants and nothing else.

"Now that's new," Anders announced after a two-minute long staring contest in complete silence. "Do I want to know what happened?"

"You really don't," Hawke assured him. Anders stretched his arms and helped the rogue down. Hawke's whole body was covered in small scratches - unpleasant but nothing lethal. He was shaking. Anders shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Hawke's shoulders.

"Did you win, at least?"

"You could say that. _It_ won't be bothering anyone else."

"Such a waste!" Anders snorted so loud a bunch of birds splattered from the nearest bush. Still laughing, he waved towards the clearing. "Come on. The weather is--no! Andraste's knickers, put me down!"

"You're laughing at me! You're a mean, mean mage!" Hawke grabbed him around the waste, his large biceps shifting under weight; warm kisses on Anders' chin, cheekbones, corners of his mouth. He smelled a touch of the forest in Hawke's hair, scents of late-blooming embrium and moongrass.

"I can be pretty mean," he purred into the rogue's ear. He could feel the shiver which his words have sent down Hawke's spine.

"Can you now?" Hawke's face shining with a kind of smile a child has, having pulled off something mischievous. "Yes, please."

 

***

They say you can only jump Master of Ravens while he is asleep. The spirit entity which he is one with protects him in waking hours, and Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, is always watching his back. In more than one way. It is difficult enough to find the infamous apostate in the first place - it is almost impossible to catch him unaware, lest you are lucky enough to find him sleeping and quiet enough not to interrupt his slumber. That's what those who walked out alive say.

Jokes on them; Master of Ravens does not sleep.

Insomnia started out small about a year ago and gradually became more and more difficult to hide. Sometimes Hawke would find him napping in daytime over a book or a newly crafted charm, and upon waking Anders would discover a cup of herbal tea on the table and a blanket covering his shoulders. In summer he would sit by the open door, watching the stars high above. They felt pure and brought comfort, for amongst all chaos they stay untouched. This stargazing would last for hours until his body started to feel sore, but it was the only way not to stay alone with his own thoughts.

Hawke did not mind stargazing, but he minded the dark circles under Anders' eyes. "Your eyebags have their own eyebags," he'd say and urge the mage to lay down for an extra hour after lunch, scoffing at all protests.

This night Hawke fell asleep early. Anders stayed up, tracing love bites with his fingertips. Hawke was funny when he slept: arms outstretched, mouth slightly agape, snoring accompanying his deep breaths. Like a giant bear in cold winter. Anders did not sleep, and that might have been a problem before but tonight, should he have drifted off, he would not have heard it.

The wind did not sound right. The grass was not bending in unison. Is it really there, or is his mind playing tricks? Anders slowly put his feet on the floor. He froze, listening.

Soft noise, like a rattle of snake skin against the dusty stone.

It was real. Someone was crouching along the wall of the house. Just outside. Alone. Lightly armed, perhaps. Very, very quiet, but just a touch not quiet enough. Just a tiny touch above the hearing threshold.

Anders kept still, staring into darkness. What should he do? Wake Hawke, grab their weapons--no, there might be more of them hiding outside. Noises will tip them off. Take out that stalker. If he is alone, he is not going to be any trouble.

He stood up. The night felt thick, tense. He felt the space around him to find his cloak. And nothing else. A mage does not need a staff to defend themselves; it only serves as an amplifier helpful for battle. He proceeded towards the door, slowly, every step a risk. The door was locked. He might look for a key but his stumbling around will spook his prey. The window is a safer bet. He shifted his weight without stepping into light spot on the floor and gently pushed the window forward. It opened with a high-pitched screech; not overly loud, but it made Anders freeze in fear. His blood went cold when he thought the "guest" might hear him. The rustling has stopped. They were both waiting.

A minute has passed. Soft footsteps outside carried on _. Good._ Anders pulled up onto the windowsill without a single sound, moving with perfect coordination. Years of hiding in the woods do that to you; in dangerous moments your muscles become hard as steel, and you learn to conceal your scent, your breath, the slightest trace of your presence. You become aware of direction of the wind and of the singing of birds. You learn how to walk with a moving shadow of a cloud. You learn to hear and see in the dark.

Part of him was riveted - it's a hunt.

_come, come, bonny Lynne_

_tell us, tell us where you've been_  

He almost reached the corner of the house. On the other side, someone else was waiting for him. So close. Just an arm length away. If only he could reach and knock the intruder out, carry them inside...

_come, come, bonny Lynne_

_we've a bed to put you in_

Just a moment more. Just an inch closer.

The flash of light was all that saved him. He swung back so hastily his feet nearly slipped on the wet grass; bleeding sparks, a ball of light flew by with a loud _swoosh!_ Anders could feel the arcane energy rising within him as the moment of shock has passed and he threw his hands up in the air. A glimmering veil fell from his fingertips to the ground and covered him from the next attack. _Swoosh!_ Another lightning scorched the ground underneath his feet. He pushed forward, reflecting spells with his transparent shield. Blinding light, smell of wet grass, tremor in his shoulders;  _swoosh, swoosh!_

"You can't stay covered forever!"

Anders caught some motion with a corner of his eye; a familiar spellcasting figure. Second later he nearly managed to dodge as huge droplets of fire rained from above onto his head; his energetic veil weakened as he shifted his focus. He won't be able to keep it up for long. He retreated behind the wall to catch his breath. The air smelled of smoke. Darkness stung his eyes. _Shit, shit, shit._

He took a deep breath and paused to think. Alright, he can do this. Magic is better than a blade. It is familiar. Its laws are known. It can be bent and twisted to his will.

He threw the shield down and waited until everything was once again engulfed in darkness. Then he pulled his hands up to his chest, carefully gathering the energy into a tight knot. Dormant force, flowing in rivers. Tingling whispers. One precise action, and all this power turns into physical strength, unleashed at once like a thousand arrows.

He closed his eyes and stepped out of cover.

Three fiery bolts nearly set his cloak ablaze, missing just a shard of an inch; the grass around turned into glowing ash. A pile of leaves on the left turned crisp and caught on fire. It drew enemy's attention away for a brief second. This gave Anders the exact chance he needed.

The air tore apart as the power struck down from nowhere, a ton of invisible weight in free fall; the stranger fell on his knees, twitched once, then fell unconscious. Anders leaned against the wall and huffed in relief. Everything felt sore. Red spots danced before his eyes.

"Huh. Never thought those dull force magic formulas would actually be useful."

He headed to his failed assassin, who by now has partially regained awareness of his surroundings and was holding his head with both hands. Anders knelt before him and carefully inspected his skull.

"Rings a bit, doesn't it?.." He raised the mage's chin up to look him in the eye. Speech left him as he recognized the face of his enemy. That same agility, nervous voice--he should have known it before. A question from behind his back sounded distant as if it came from the Fade.

"What's going on here?"

Half-dressed, with claw-shaped dagger in each hand, Hawke stood still and studied the battlefield with astonished expression. Anders gave him a meek wave to signal he was alive. Hawke sprinted towards him, face a portrait of anxiety.

"What happened, love? Did he hurt you?"

"He tried, but he wasn't successful." Anders rubbed the back of his neck and turned to the young man at his knees. "I don't understand. I took you in, I healed your injuries and gave you shelter. Why did you do that?"

"You... you don't understand..." The man turned onto his back, staring wildly into the black abyss where stars shimmered in indifferent silence. Suddenly, he started laughing. Anders had never heard anyone laugh like that. It was a scratching, broken sound, as if his ribcage contained a badly debilitated mechanism.

"You took everything," their guest continued, lips barely moving. "Everything... You and your blighted Champion came there, all bright and free... we voted for independence... Do you know what happened after you left?.. Everyone died. Everyone. The templars... the Right of Annulment...  I watched them die, my friends, my teachers, twelve-fucking-year-old children tagging at my sleeves, their howls shaking the very heaven. Their faces, covered in blood. Every morning I wake up, I can see them under my eyelids."

"So you were upset and decided to go on a deadly rampage," Hawke presumed sarcastically. Anders made a gesture offering him to shut up. Understandably, his beloved was infuriated, but that did not give him an excuse to be hurtful.

"The Circle, it fed us, and taught us, and protected us... and you took it away." The man made an attempt to stand; the ground was spinning under him and he rocked slightly from one side to another. "I'll have your life for that."

Anders let out a deep sigh. This abandoned, unwanted boy (thanks to Divine Victoria, no longer an apostate at least), deprived of everything he held dear, has been hunting his nemesis for all this time. Through the war and life on the run he has carried hatred in his heart. It devoured him, painfully slow, until there was only grief and lust for justice and bitter joy of solitude. That was why he came alone, why he did not hold back and did not try to protect himself, rather spending all mana on vicious attacks. An image way too familiar to be shocking. Anders wished he could have taken back what his rage has wrought. Right now, he could turn away, close his eyes - and see him, this young boy fresh from the solitary confinement in the Circle, on the run again, lost and full of bitter, undying anger. His clothes are ragged, he hides behind a smile,  _I will have them all dead, I swear._

Revenge is always loss, and destruction, and more loss.

"I'm sorry for what happened. But please, don't do anything you'll regret." He raised his hand as a manifestation of peace. "I don't want to hurt you. Trust me, I know more about vengeance than anyone, and it won't bring your friends back. Death only feeds your pain..."

"My pain?! What do you know about my pain? You still think it was all worth it, you damned hypocrite!" The man took two steps and almost fell again, eyes full of rage and tears. He spread his arms as if wanting to set the world aflame with just the power of his will. Anders stepped towards him with caution, trying not to provoke the poor fool into unleashing hell. The stranger's crooked grin felt more like expression of pain than evil triumph.

"I'll show you. I'll make you understand."

It happened so fast. Too fast. Anders needed just another moment to control his own powers. But the night was dark and the stars were indifferent. And time flowed meaninglessly, without mercy.

The mage threw his hand up, a giant glowing arc rose from his open palm, blue light shattered the night in blinking shreds; Hawke cried out in surprise and anger, and Anders heard himself screaming from afar.

"NO-O-O!!"

His fingers lit with blue flame, and a sword of light swung through the air, down, down, like a pendulum, cutting through the leaves and through the lights and through the clothes and through the skin

_dear, dear bonny Lynne_

 

When he opened his eyes, Hawke was sitting on the ground with a face of a man whose life just flashed before him. A body was gushing blood over the carpet of black ash and wet soil.

_a mossy stone_

_a finger bone_

Anders was shaking. He could not even stand, his body just refused to obey his mind. He shifted towards the corpse, crawling on all four. He inspected the wound, checked the pulse and eyelids. There was no need in any of these procedures. The man was dead.

"Maker..." Anders shoved the body away, overcome with unexpected rage. "Maker's fucking eyeballs!! I told you!.. I told you I didn't want it! _What are you, deaf?!_ "

The corpse remained unresponsive (as natural for any normal corpse). The wound has nearly severed the man's head from the body, leaving a three-inch thick bridge of vessels and connective tissue between the two. Magic cuts keener than a sword, equally managing armor, flesh, and bone.

"Anders, sweetheart." Hawke took his trembling hand. "He can't hear you. Please, calm down."

They sat together, holding hands and watching red bleed from a half-beheaded man who tried to kill them and paid for it with his life. Heavy fog descended upon the forest and soaked their clothes. The stars became dim and the sky turned light. Sweet breeze nudged hilltops with its kind touch. Hawke delicately pulled Anders up. Anders did not move.

"You did everything you could."

"No." He stood up, swallowing bitter taste and feeling his stomach turn. "The war is over. He wasn't supposed to die."

They kept silence when the dawn came and spilled light over the yard, revealing scorch marks and burnt tree crowns and a broken window. Perhaps it exploded when the skies started raining fire. Hawke went back inside to make tea and breakfast. Neither of them felt like eating. Anders disappeared into the forest for a while and came back with a big bunch of firewood. Hawke looked at him, nodded without a word, and helped gathering fuel. By afternoon they have built a large enough pile to place the body on top of it, arms crossed, eyes closed as in prayer. Hawke stood beside. Anders lit a small ball of flame in a palm of his hand. He carried it around the burial, and fire licked tree branches and dead leaves, heavy smoke rising to the clouds. Gradually, the whole pile turned into heat and crackling of breaking wood. Kissed by flame, the man's face blackened and grew weary, scorned, like old tree core.

Anders cleared his throat.

"Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, grant this man a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace he's found in eternity. The Light shall lead him safely through the paths of this world and into the next. For they who trust in the Maker, fire is their water."

In the Circle, he despised learning the Chant and Chantry history. Lessons were dull and unargumentative; his young mind dried of boredom, and he came to view the whole institution of faith as part of an oppressive system which put him on the bottom of society and proclaimed his gift sinful in the eyes of god. He stayed uncorrected, but it did not hold him from believing and praying. Not for the Maker - He never answered. For the people. They deserved being honored in simple and beautiful words. The Chant of Light was exactly that - simple and beautiful.

When he was done, Hawke touched his shoulder. "You should get some sleep. I'll watch the fire. It will be a long day."

Anders would like to stay, but there was no arguing with Hawke when it came to taking measures of self-care. So he obeyed and crawled under the blanket, though his body jerked uncontrollably every minute, eyes dashed around, and breaths shortened.

Soon enough, though, sleepy haze draped his tired eyes, and he fell through the Veil into the world of dreams. Happily, the Fade was a familiar and friendly place. He felt safe there.

He dreamt of burning trees, green lights. And mockingbirds.


	3. cursed rats!

The smell of ram stew was almost tangible in a cloud of thick vapour underneath the ceiling. Taking long breaths made Anders dizzy. He still did it: breathing in - holding the air - and breathing out. One of the big surprises in his life had been discovering that Hawke can cook and ever so much enjoys it. He said it reminded him of his childhood in Lothering. Now Hawke had four mouths savoring his endeavors (cats are gluttonous bastards), and Anders had a pleasure of being useful. He chopped plums and peeled potatoes, seasoned meat and minced dry roots, watched the fire and kneaded dough. He sipped from a big wooden spoon and showed thumbs up. There are potions and spells for depression relief, but Anders found the sounds and aromas in a kitchen are not terrible remedies either. Especially while Hawke is around.

"Where do you always hide our herbs?"

"I don't hide them, I expropriate them from cats. Whenever that stuff is left in easy access, they go nuts. Look at what Warden-Commander has done to my trousers!"

"So they're torn. I thought you like them this way."

Anders wouldn't bet his pauldron on it but there was magic in the way Hawke made routine tasks, like cooking or mending clothes, pleasant and mindful.

Today was different. No shit, he just killed a person.

It was in the air, in the bubbling of cauldron, in the smell of rosemary. He closed his eyes and saw it again: blue blade rises and lowers to end life within another man's eyes. Sky clouds up with black smoke. Funerals always smell like cooking meat, disgusting, inappropriate, insolent. History teaches us: life is cheap. Survival comes with a hundred deaths, a thousand deaths. But it does not help. Not with this one. For once, Anders is grateful for having been possessed: he does not remember everyone he's killed. Only some. Only flashes of the fire. Soft whimpers of agony, harshly squeezed out of burnt throats. He fainted and grabbed the tabletop to keep balance.  _Every time I wake up, I can see it under my eyelids_. 

Blue fire only burns where there is darkness.

Yet he saved Hawke. And he was not going to regret it evermore.

"You alright?.." Hawke's voice came a surprise. His hand gently rubbed Anders' shoulder. "I'll take that. Thank you."

He slid the cutting board along the table, picked it up and proceeded to add the diced carrots into a pot above the hearth. He stirred the mixture, sniffing the air with great sense of expertise. Casually peeking sideways, Anders studied his husband's face for the slightest ripples of disturbance. Hawke says he is a tough guy. He doesn't need someone overseeing him all the time. From the day Anders walked into the orphaned Amell mansion many years ago, from the day he saw Hawke's dead eyes - a wobbling lake of tears, - he knew it was a lie. Ember of a fire, memory in a mirror. Words clogged his throat, pressed into a slimy ball which he could not swallow. He focused on organizing wooden bowls.

Hawke took his bowl first and filled it almost to the edge.

"You look like a walking corpse," he said. "You have to stop it."

"I'll try. Thank you, love." Anders tried slurping a spoonful and instantly coughed it out: the stew was delicious but had the temperature of dragon's breath. In warming up these autumn days Hawke spared no effort.

While Anders was trying to manage his dinner without burning his tongue, Hawke took a seat on the other side of the table, bowl resting in his palms. For some time they ate in silence. A lone fly buzzed around in loops. Upstairs, Warden-Commander waged war against curtains. The wind knocked on the window with an irritating _clop, clop_.

Hawke carefully cleared his throat.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he began, "about that glowing sword thing you did... I'd never seen anything like it. Was that?.."

Anders put his spoon down.

"Uhm, yeah. About that..." He stared into his bowl and felt really stupid. "We need to talk. But lest you suppose anything - no, it's not Justice. Not like before anyway."

"Not like before." Hawke looked askance at him. Anders rubbed his nose bridge, trying to gather his thoughts. They resisted.

"When Justice and I became one, he lost control over me. I'm still of two minds, but it's more like different moods, not different people. No more detached raving or memory loss... I am what I am. However, it seems he has passed over some... abilities. I discovered it about a year ago. I've been studying this magic ever since. It seems to be more hazardous than what I'm used to. When there is a lot of stress - for example, when you're in danger, - it gets volatile. It's a lot of power that comes with a high price. I've had a few incidents with it, though it wasn't lethal. If only I could... last night..."

For a few moments, he was sure Hawke was going to incinerate him through the power of will.

"So... you've been experimenting on yourself with an unknown type of magic. _For a year_. And you didn't tell me." The level of disapproval in this voice was so overwhelming it made Anders wish he could slip under the table and consequently disappear between the floorboards. 

"I didn't want to alert you before I knew more," he offered: a pathetic excuse of a scolded child. "Justice's magic is... special. Like Fade itself, it's fluid and elaborate. It draws from emotion rather than discipline. It drains. Leaves your mind empty." He smiled at his own enthusiasm. "Were it not so deadly, I would almost call it fascinating. Most mages of the Circle know of possession as a solely destructive experience. Yet the Avvar shamans, the blind Seers, even Mortalitasi of Nevarra - all deal with spirits and possession in some shape... There is so much about magic we don't know."

"Sure, spirits are amazing! One pitfall is they can kill you or drive insane." Hawke's eyes darkened as they always did when he was pissed. "I mean, don't get me wrong, glowing swords are  _awesome_ and _hot_ , but when you're putting yourself in danger, I want to know! Isn't that obvious?"

"I'm sorry."

"You should be! First that poor kid, now this..."

Anders reached across the tabletop and took his hand.

"It's hard on you, I know."

Hawke sighed, closed his eyes, and his frame relaxed. "I'll be fine. I've killed before."

"It doesn't help."

"No. It doesn't."

Sometimes adults lie to each other to hide what they think is childish. Hawke lied about his feelings. He was raised to be protective, the uphold of a family. Anders lied about the reason he kept his discovery a secret. Maker's breath, how many years have they been together, and he's still scared of telling the truth. Childish fear, literally. Father never forgave him for being a mage.

Hawke is a good person. He deserves so much more. Safety. People calling him 'messere'. Peaches for breakfast. Silver combs for his hair. Pink sunrises. Not this, not another episode of 'my husband is a murderous abomination but it's alright because I've nothing to lose anyway'.

You grow out of your lies. Anders caressed Hawke's hands. They were warm.

"I'll need to talk to my contact in Grinsorrow," he said. "With this mess on our hands, I doubt we can afford further logisitical confusion. And I'll have to find a safer place for her."

"Sound plan," Hawke nodded. "I'll finally get to meet Verilia, won't I?"

 

***

Contradictory to a popular opinion, Verilia was an elf.

That being said, she was remarkably short. Her curvy muscular figure barely reached over five feet, although she compensated it with acute mind and ruthless temper. She stood out in any gathering thanks to a giant hair bun crowning her head. She was ginger, with sun-kissing freckles on her bronze cheeks and nose, and she had the strangest, blackest eyes Anders had ever seen. Her long ears were pierced four times and decorated with cheap jewelry (probably a fruit of a robbery or fraud). She smoked pipe, despised boots and, in her own words, did not take any bullshit. She lived off some mysterious sources and had no specific profession - other than being an excruciating pain in the ass, that is. Anders thought of her as a friend. What she herself thought on that matter would likely not pass a censor.

She was quartered in a local inn. A small house on the very edge of a steep cliff under which a spring carried its deep waters down south. The spring was named after some long-forgotten Alamarri legend - something about a man who cried so much he turned into stone. There was little to talk of in the village; no wonder a couple of strange men settling three miles east sparked a great deal of rumors. Anders gave out cold potions and Hawke helped mending rooftops and moving furniture. Little by little, villagers grew accustomed to them. Questions remained, but at least they were welcome, even somewhat adored. Especially by a group of local old ladies. One of them has knitted Hawke a scarf.

That is why, when they arrived at the inn, little notice was paid, spare for a friendly nod. The place was a property of an elderly lady, the same scarf-knitting one. Her tavern had seen better days and was a little dark, but otherwise welcoming and very clean. Following an old habit from years undercover, Hawke made sure nobody was paying attention before turning to guard Anders' back. They casually took the stairs to Verilia's room.

The door was sealed on a latch. Anders knocked.

At first, there was no response. Then the latch screeched and slid back. The door opened and rich, toxic fume swallowed them whole. Coughing through the sleeve, Anders walked in.

The room was a disaster. It was not just filthy but completely, utterly trashed. Its center was marked by a ruined chair, apparently thrown into the wall some time earlier. Layer upon layer the floor was covered with damaged items. There were ripped sheets, shattered bottles, a small shield reduced to splinters. Even a hole in a carpet. Through spirals of bluish smoke things appeared blurred and discolored; the double bed in the corner was undone, littered with worn clothes, empty mugs, compressed knots of wire. Everything looked like a raiders' hideout and smelled just like it: of booze, dust and chokeweed (a spicy wheaty herb of lilac-blue color which Rivaini used to 'expand their consciousness'). Hawke scanned this mess with an eye of a professional looter. He looked amused.

Situated against the window, the finishing touch was a giant armchair. A thin ribbon of smoke was rising from behind its back.

"There you are," said a low, rusty voice with heavy Fereldan accent. "Been expectin' you'd show up. And where's my cargo, eh? Lost 'im in the woods?"

"Not precisely," Anders answered, as if the wild scenery was not bothering him at all.

"That's alright. Didn't feel like meetin' him anyway." A raucous laughter. At last, she rose from the chair, turning her pitch-black eyes toward the guests. The setting sun has turned her hair into a blazing halo. "Ah, I recognize your sweetheart. Champion of Kirkwall alright. Bit shorter than I expected."

She made her way towards Hawke, effortlessly navigating through piles of garbage. Up close her eyes looked cold and heavy. She stared him in the eye with unblinking gaze of a lizard. Face to face they presented both a great contrast and a great match: a man the size of a watchtower and a woman no taller than a cat, both dark-dressed, dark-eyed. The golden-brown eye met the raven-black.

When Anders met Verilia for the first time, her stare burned him. He felt her eyes dissect his heart with unforgiving speed. Now he was curious as to what others see in them. Those eyes never hid anything. They yelled all their secrets into your face.

"You're a special one, you are," Verilia concluded after a long pause.

"Thanks. I get that a lot." Hawke gave her the most open of his smirks. Verilia turned away.

"Like I said, I've news for you, Anders. You must have somethin' for me, too. Otherwise you'd stay in your ass of nowhere for the next ten years, you would." She made a gesture for them to get comfortable - a questionable offer, given the havoc. "Sorry for the mess, I had a rocky day. Care for a drink? I've got wine and... wine."

They carefully swept most of the trash from the mattress before taking a seat. Hawke instantly started thumbing one of the wire knots which turned out to be a nug-sized leghold trap bent into unrecognizable mush. His eyes lit up with respectful awe: _quite the strength!_ Verilia sunk into the armchair and popped open a half-empty bottle.

"First of all," she began at last, "you told me to stay out of trouble. So I did. Dunno much of what's _actually_ happened at the Council--safe for 'em canapes bein' a total disgrace." She chuckled and chugged the wine down. "Like we thought, there's essentially no power in the South to balance out the Inquisition. Adaar would've kicked 'em noble arses with her hands tied and they would've thanked her. Which she pretty much did. She's Divine Victoria's personal Lady Protector now, and the whole thing counts as a Chantry asset. Thus we've got ourselves the old order under a new name--"

"Wait, wait." Anders waved his hands, somewhat overwhelmed by this information. "Last time we talked, the question was if the Inquisition would still exist! How did they get so far so quickly?"

"So Orlesians ask them to disarm and yield, Ferelden wants them disbanded, and instead Inquisitor gets herself a promotion!" Hawke laughed, slapping his thighs with both hands. Rings of smoke laughed with him. "What a passion for responsibility!"

"You should've seen her on that last meeting. She practically served 'em their own balls. What a woman..." Verilia's eyes radiated warmth. She paused, then shrugged with awkward haste, as if to shake the daydream off. "Anyhow, that's the main point. But Anders, they've got new focus now. I'm not sure but it's somethin' to do with the Fade and a guy named Solas. He was in the Inquisition and disappeared two years ago, right after they closed off that Breach thing for the second time. They're scared of 'em spies, root us out like spindleweed. Elves, specifically."

"They can't kick out _all_ the spies." Anders snorted with slight disdain. "Who's going to protect the Divine?"

"You laugh, but it's foul business, I tell you. Two were arrested at Winter Palace. Not your people though."

"None of them are _my_ people, Verilia." He couldn't count the number of times he had to correct her on that matter. Perhaps she ignored him on purpose. He leaned forward, eager to change the subject. "How are the mages at Skyhold?"

"They're alright, mama-hen. They sit up their tower, do their magic stuff." She suddenly laughed: a sound of an armor clinking against itself, poorly fitted straps rubbing with a high-pitched noise. "With no templars around they're like puppies with a stick... well, a dozen sticks. Enchanter Elrik kept feedin' me 'em pastries from the kitchen. He says I gotta grow."

Hawke couldn't help himself and started giggling. Anders smiled. Elrik was about five years older than him, grumpy, short-sighted, with braids in his hair and an outlook of a fatalist. He looked much like a robed broomstick with hands. To think he of all people would sneak into the kitchen to snatch an extra slice of pie...

"You're a true friend. Thank you."

"Yeah yeah, I'm exceptional. Don't get sappy."

She stood up to stretch her tiny arms, and her joints crackled like breaking nutshells. Her gait was shifty; Anders frowned upon the shards of glass dangerously spilled around her bare feet. Verilia ignored his disgruntled looks, picked a moth-eaten coat from a pile of rubble. She sniffed it and proceeded to wrap it around her shoulders. Anders heard Hawke chuckle under breath.

"So." Verilia flopped back into the armchair. "What's your part of the news?"

"Yes. The man I've sent you. He wasn't just another contact. There was... it doesn't matter, but he tried to kill us. Sneaked into our backyard last night. I fought him and... well, he's dead."

"Well, that's a good thing, innit? Man dead, problem solved..." She looked up at his face; an echo of laughter died on her lips. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright." He made it sound convincing. "It's in the past now. Our present issue is not that he tried to kill us but that he knew how to find us in the first place. Someone with his determination would hardly put this part on a maybe. Meaning, either one of us gave himself out or..."

"...or you've got a rat." She stretched words like soft candy. Her tone was disturbingly nice. "Want me to hunt 'em for you? You've only to ask, y'know."

On the bottom of her eyes he spotted a glimpse of agitation. An old habit, like a buried stone that still stirs the water stream. A name erased from a graveyard, a patch of moss covering withered bones. Years ago, same light would burn in his husband's eyes. He would wipe the blood off his face. _Let's dance._

"No one is hunting anyone. We're keeping safe, and that includes you."

"L-a-aame!" Verilia made a disgusted grimace. Hawke, until this minute deep in thought, raised his head.

"She's right," he noted. "Unless we want to continue receiving midnight visitors with a soft spot for bloody vengeance, we'll have to move. Find the leak and spare them the trouble of knocking on our door."

"Still. No hunting on _your_ part."

Verilia sighed with disappointment. "Fine, Master. Have it your way."

And that was the plan.

All simplicity given, it had a couple of stern spots. The safest way to reach Highever - where Anders proposed to start searching from - was climbing over the Southorn Hills, to the South Reach arling with civilized landscape and plenty of roads. However, there was high chance to be recognized. People of Hinterlands were still thorny with mages, for obvious reasons. As Verilia uttered in colorful terms, 'ain't no balls for a fight, but enough to make throwin' shit popular'. Anders was not of a fan of 'throwing shit', so he tended to agree with her.

Instead, she suggested travelling north along the Brecillian Passage. This route would only take a week on foot, though with all semi-charted wilderness to the east it could prove more trouble than economy. Humans did not set foot into Brecillian Forest for a good reason, and many city elves, when following its footpaths in attempt to find a traveling clan, would get lost and fall prey to wild beasts. Or something worse. Those who lived in vicinity of the woods told blood-chilling tales of giant wolves with six eyes, spiders the size of a house, and ancient spirits who roam this wicked land in seek of lonely souls to feast upon. Hawke muttered something about giant spiders being less fun to parry with than angered villagers, but Verilia teased him so much he ended up agreeing just for the spite of it.

"I think I'll tag along with you two," Verilia murmured, stuffing her pipe with a fresh portion of chokeweed. "Woods hate idiots, y'know. Besides, I owe you one, ol' man. You an' your lovey-dove will be safer with me."

"You're not even Dalish," Anders noted. "How is having you better? Also, since when am I old?"

"You live in a woodshed with three cats. You're old." She lit the cup, took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "As to 'em spiders and everythin', well... I'm no Dalish, but I know 'em woods. And I fight like any good soldier. I'll be useful."

"Whom did you fight?" Hawke's head rose so quickly Anders thought he heard the crackling of vertebrae.

"Many powerful idiots, darling. Just like you."

"Anders, can we keep her? I don't even care about spiders." He looked at the mage with a face of a mabari pup trying to beg out a juicy wheal bone. Anders opened his mouth to object, but changed his mind. This adorable face was pretty much a bargain for any price in the world.

"Alright," he sighed. "Just be careful."

"That's more like it." Verilia nodded with a pleased smile. She stood, her expression tamer than usual - perhaps from all the smoking. "Now, enough business, eh? If this' our last night here, let's have some fun."

 

Anders never enjoyed getting drunk. He was far past the age when his mind was resilient enough to remain functional after booze. He politely held to his cup of tea. Hawke got drunk quickly and sobered up even quicker; partying with him has been an experience of extremes. Verilia savored each sip like it was her last. She did not get sober but was not wasted either. Through the sea of voices Anders would sometimes catch her laughter: unrefined silverite, brutal sword meeting heavy helm. There was a small podium stage in the center of a hall. Few hours in, Verilia procured a lute from the innkeeper, climbed up the stage and performed her favourite song, 'The Divine and Her Eight Hundred Nugs', three times in a row (the number of nugs kept changing with each performance). Her voice was a bumpy road, but heartwarming. When the crowd began to thin out, Hawke took Verilia and her lute down. He carried her around on his shoulder, singing along her rusty voice.

The hour was late when they finally left Grinsorrow. The night felt damp and chilly. Distant lights glowered in the valley. The villagers prepared for sleep, oblivious of vile magic or secret spy networks. Anders pictured simple, mildly moody people with splintered hands and hardened faces. They prayed, the whole family: mother and father, three children. Family dog if they had the coin. Candles left tracks of soot on the wooden walls. Sometimes it felt unfair to not be one of them. To not think it enough when one owns a house, a dog, a Maker-given family. Although Anders did not feel misplaced at all.

They helped each other up the hill. Hawke kept asking to be carried. The door opened and they fell into the dark inside, stepping on cats, stumbling upon furniture. Anders felt his lover's kisses on the back of his neck; ale breaths, soft mewling noises. In awe, he pressed Hawke's back against the door, covered his lips with his. The cold air stung their shoulders as the broken window let the draught in. Anders lit small fires in his palms, the kinds that do not hurt when touched. He pulled back, crushing on their bed, whispering sweet nonsense into Hawke's ear.

"You are so drunk," he chided as Hawke's hands gently nudged down his spine.

"I'm not _that_ drunk."

Hawke squirmed around, found a blanket on the floor and wrapped it around their bodies, pulling them closer together. He snuggled into a ball of warmth, cozy and compact, head resting on his husband's chest. Anders dozed off in light vapors of alcohol and silver shades of moonlight. He read his fate in golden-brown eyes and drunk this prophecy and absorbed its image with every last bit of his being.

No home would ever feel warmer. He wouldn't trade it for a normal life. And he wasn't scared.

 

***

This time he dreamt of rats. The kind that brought plague.

They filled every corner in Darktown. Sometimes he would hear them whisper, he could swear. In the South they are considered pests, they destroy harvest, even eat leather. But there is no food to steal in Kirkwall. Rats grow fat on human flesh.

They even come to chew on the living, though corpses pile up in the sewers. They come to the ill and the weakened and start their dinner before it is served.

But they do not touch him. Somehow they know the smell of his blood. They know of his corruption.

They run deeper and deeper down the tunnels. He chases them ankle deep in rotten waste. Deeper and deeper, where all light dies, where his eyes see naught. He thumbs the walls, they are cold and slippery, water streaming down the stone. Rats whisper behind his back. They watch him stumble down, down. Deep down where all roads end.

It's calling from below. The song that muffles rat whispers. His body gets colder and colder with each step. The song grows louder. His head rings, the darkness presses his eyelids; he fights his way through the piling corpses, black blood, blue flesh, pupils white and still. He cannot turn back though everything within him screams, there is no light; the song is unbearable, dragon's claws scratching against the stone, foul water rises and he falls and drowns, and rats come to watch him fall, and Hawke, where is Hawke, he isn't here...

Anders wakes up in cold sweat, grasping at empty space, his own cries an echo on dry lips.


	4. Ghilan'nain, speed my steps

It started with a visitor.

His death set everything in motion, like a slide collapsing into the valley after a single rock hits the others. Down, down they go, dust and rubble left behind. How do you keep the road clear?

Anders gathered their things while Hawke was out in the village seeking temporary shelter for cats. What does one need for the life on the road? Warm bedrolls, a tent, some of the dishes, some spare robes. Food for a week. How many times had he checked that same list before? Hawke has already sharpened and packed his old daggers - 'his friends' as he called them, fingers sliding lovingly down the grips. Anders threw in a few lyrium potions from a secret stash. You never know.

Only by the time it was done did he realize: this is it, just like the bad old days. They are leaving now, and they might never see this place again. Hawke scoffed. He said the mission was a piece of cake. They'll be back in no time. But then again, you never know. Everything happened so fast. Anders was not sure about anything now. He could only watch the slide bury his wannabe-domestic life under long-forgotten memories. Blood on his hands. He moved through life like in a waking dream, without fully acknowledging his surroundings - preferring not to.

They set out at dawn. Verilia checked the area for safety and led them out of the village. She was also packed and fully armed, a jagged greatsword sheathed on her back. Anders turned only once to catch a final glimpse of their home, the roofs of Grinsorrow, the hills that rose silently to scarred heavens. And then there was but mist.

Sudden, but inevitable. It seemed like the past two years they've been hiding from their old wounds, playing a pretense of normal life. Which is effectively all they deserved, perhaps. He thought this tight knot in his chest would disappear after Kirkwall. One way or another. But it turned out just wishing to be unbroken is not enough. He did not feel whole. He suspected Hawke did not feel it either. Sometimes it happens when you think yourself ready to die: It becomes your sole plan for the future. Paying the price for your deeds is one thing; being forgiven requires strength he did not have. To live without punishment, to be instead crippled by what he had done.

Oh, sweet normality. Maybe it is something you are born with.

They have been underway for five days. They passed a sylvan valley under heavy rain; leaves shimmered silver in the gloomy light, dancing and whispering in a chorus. Verilia ordered the men to stay and wait for her to scout the road ahead. They stood there, knee-deep in freezing water, seeing no farther than an arm's length.

She returned completely soaked.

"It's the river," she declared morbidly. "It bloated up. Blighted flood a mile forth."

"So we have to go east now," Anders spat. "Wonderful."

Going east was the exact thing they agreed to  _avoid._

On the bright side, Verilia has proven an indispensable guide. The wilds felt home to her even as a city elf. She reminded Anders of a stray cat. She easily recognized beast tracks, showed her companions what paths to avoid and which landmarks use. She never cut herself while travelling completely barefoot. She even harvested some of the herbs along the way, with Anders' careful permission. So far there was no sign of giant spiders or any other trouble, much to Hawke's delight. Apparently, he perceived - or chose to act like he did - this whole affair as an adventure, his uplifted spirits showing through an ear-to-ear smile. It availed him naught: Anders knew that attitude all too well.

Hawke took a great interest in Verilia. It was in his nature to poke around people with dark secrets - and his new friend undoubtedly had one. Where did she get that sword? Oh, is this actual silverite? Must have been pricey, indeed! Where did she work before joining the Ravens? Was it with the raiders--because those are Rivaini manners she's got. Hawke knew a few Rivaini; oh what stories he could tell about the Queen of Eastern Seas!.. But he digresses. What is Verilia's favourite fighting style? Does she like heavy or light armor? Can she crush a brick with her forehead? What's mistress Adaar like these days? Has it been exciting to see her, a Qunari, up close? Because Hawke was excited in his time.

Verilia laughed. "One question at a time, Champion!"

Secrets remained secrets. But she kept a friendly, nonjudgmental attitude, and Anders liked her being this way. He was proud to see Hawke stay on her good side.

The sixth evening caught them close to an ancient elven temple, long abandoned amidst the swamps and spider webs. It must have been spectacular once, when its marble flooring hasn't yet cracked open to let springs of elfroot grow through, when the frescoes on its walls were not simply patterns of chipped cobblestone. Now it was cold. Lifeless. Grim statues gazed upon the travelers from their pedestals, their figures lacking large pieces and covered in moss. Carved letters on them were eroded by wind and rain. Everything here was very still; even animals have abandoned this place, safe for a whole swarm of bats.

It was a beautiful sight but a sinister one. Unfamiliar sadness cradled Anders' heart as he walked slowly under collapsed pillars. He never thought much of the elves' plight. Humans rarely do. Yet the witness of these ruins made him feel akin with the People - a nation brutalized, lost to human purges, their existence a stain of shame. The Chantry has disowned them. The nations of Thedas have turned them down. They were not welcome home and had to salvage what used to be theirs. All for the crime of lacking the bliss of the Maker's light.

They were no petty salvagers who built this temple. They were people. Crazy, of course, yet people nonetheless. And now they were gone. If he could, he would tell them. It's not their fault. Had Andraste been an elf, he wondered, would it all be different? Would the elven empire be restored to rule over Southern Thedas? Would magic still be considered sinful, with its deep connection to elven culture?

When they made camp, Verilia strolled away, to the inmost part of the temple. She knelt before one of the statues and closed her eyes. At its feet she looked even smaller than usual. The words of prayer did not slip her lips, but tale-telling was her humbled pose. Of three of them she likely felt the touch of this place the most.

Anders studied the statue from a distance. It had a sweet face, child-like, shining with love even through the crude simplicity of Dalish architecture.

"Who is she?" he asked, when Verilia finished praying.

"She's Ghilan'nain, Mother of the halla. She favors travelers."

"I didn't think you believed in Dalish gods."

"It's complicated," she said.

Ar first it upset him. Does she think he would not understand? But the longer he pondered on it, the more profoundly sorrowful her tone seemed.

He once asked her to escort a mage on the road known for being used by slavers. No severed heads, he told her. She brought him their teeth instead. She thought it was funny.

There was a gentleness about her in this place, a side of her he had never before seen. He did not want to spook it. Come to think of it, all elves he met were somewhat alike in that sense: a small part of them taken, they all seemed a little more breakable, a little more disillusioned. Orphaned by an invisible mother. A thousand years ago.

Except Fenris. Fenris was orphaned in a completely different manner. Though he too deserved compassion. It was not right, how they treated each other back then. It was not fair.

Seven years could not uncover this to him. A single evening did. Time is a strange thing.

Every morning starts the same. Everything is wet. Rain puddles gather in wells between tree roots. Caterpillars crawl up the tent. Anders sits in a dry clearing and combs his hair.

They've grown longer in the past months, his flaxen locks. He would often remind himself to cut them but ended up forgetting. Unavoidably, they would obscure his eyes, stay on his robe and in a bedroll. He found a couple of silver ones the other day. They say men of war grow old sooner.

"You need a hand with that?"

Verilia plants her feet into the moss near him. She watches his hands slip up and down, a funny wrinkle above her nose. Her eyes are different here, brighter; she wears hardened leather armor as her second skin, nothing creeks or clangs as she walks. She always wakes up early. Sometimes he wonders if she ever sleeps at all.

He nodds and passes her the comb. She separates his hair into smaller locks and starts brushing them from lower end, her touch a gentle breeze on his head. She no longer smells of wine and chokeweed - more of coal, wool, damp canine fur. Concentrated on the task, she feels almost motherly but in some professional, more respectable fashion. Anders allows this feeling to sink in, to warm him from the inside - a simple act of trust that does not grow obsolete. Water drips down the leaves. Wolves cry from afar. Her hands are mother's hands, he is seven years old. He is not a mage yet. Everything is fine.

"When this is over," Verilia says, "I'll open a barbery somewhere up north. You'll be gettin' a shave fo' half the price."

"Oh? Half-price? I better start saving for a new house then."

"Aren't you sweet and adorable..." Hawke peeks out of the tent, yawning. Verilia smiles.

"I can braid yours too. Ol' man's all done anyway, come take a look. I call it Fereldan Beauty."

Much to Anders' embarrassment, she really does make his hair fancy style: neat braids curled in two swirls on the back of his head. Hawke looks at him, suddenly blushes, and pretends to have a bad cough.

They strip the camp as quickly as they can. The day is young. Verilia goes first, palm resting on the grip of her sword. Anders follows several steps behind. Hawke, with his quick eye and keen hearing, works as a rearguard.

It started with a visitor. Another day into the woods did not bring anything new into the journey; same swamps, and rocks, and an occasional nug cooing at them from the shrubs.

"Wait." Hawke stopped and inspected a rock on his right. "I think I'd seen this carving before."

"So what?" Verilia's voice rang with irritation. "They're not all different, y'know."

Now, that was strange.

"No, I mean I'd seen this _exact_ place. Just yesterday... Are we lost?"

Anders peeked at Verilia nervously. Her eyes dashed away to the horizon.

"We're not lost," she simply said, then turned and marched forward. Hawke watched her leave with a suspicious face.

"Are you sure? We're not native residents, we can't be certain."

"You want to lead us yo'self, Champion? We're _not_ lost."

They argued no more. The party ventured on, with Hawke and Verilia retaining an upset silence. It appeared a common fight between two recent acquaintances who did not completely trust each other just yet. But ever since Anders could not shake off the revelation: he has no clue where they are.

They all knew it. Something was wrong.

First in order would be to turn back, try to find the path which they came by. That, however, would require Verilia's help, and she for some reason was very certain about their current direction. Unless they wanted to get lost on the way back, the only way now was forward, along with her. After all, maybe she _does_ know where they are.

The scariest thing about the forest is that it often looks monotonous to an outsider, like a single mass of greenery that just goes on and on, swallowing all sound and light. This sense, while pleasant, can be depressing. It drenches one's attention for details, gets under their skin. Once lost in the woods, one must be cautious, above all things, of this feeling, as it's the quickest to drive mind astray. Anders knew that from years past, yet an odd tension in his chest did not fade. One clearing replaced another, one pond of rainwater soaked into the ground and another licked the washed clay cliffs. Hawke laughed a lot. It meant something unnerved him and he couldn't quite put a finger on it. Their guide did not change much, only her looks grew wearier.

Time gets lost in the woods. When all you have is a patch of moody sky between the pines, it's hard to tell when the sun is coming up or down. And the night is darker than any other. But you get to see the stars, that is at least something to adore. Anders kept tilting head up, looking for them - they were the only reliable markers to him, both of time and location. He slept even less than back home, though long walks were supposed to prevent insomnia by simply driving him to the point of physical exhaustion where one is no longer capable of any comprehensive thought beyond a soft bed and a wool blanket. When he did fall asleep, his slumber was plagued by nightmares.

Wardens in wast majority are accustomed to sleepless nights. Some with thicker skin learn to block the dreams away, but occasionally they come back. They were especially annoying now. All these rats and dragons, whispers folded in dry winds. Of course, why the hell not, since all else has gone downhill! Blighted war, blighted forest, damned ruins that make him feel sick. Everything is wet. Fuck it all.

 

 ***

It was on the ninth day. He woke up and stared into the twilight, shallow breaths rushing in his chest, eyes wide open. His panicked brain struggled with reality, resulting in a sense of drowning, an asthmatic, claustrophobic feeling of fear and pain. He scanned his surroundings, did not spot any threat and only then felt a little better.

_They were rats' voices at first. Now they are louder. Persistent. As a wolf crouching after a halla herd, as grey wind grinding adamant walls._

Hawke lay peacefully at his side and cuddled a folded blanket. At the rustle of fabric he opened one eye, still sleepy.

"Is everything alright?.." he muttered. Anders tilted left and right and tried to appear calm.

"Yes," he lied. "Just a bad dream."

Hawke murmured something incoherent and wrapped his arm around Anders' waist. His skin was hot. It smelled nice. Hawke always smells nice. Even when his odor was foul, it was still preferable. Anders tucked the blanket around him.

Then he unbuttoned the collar of his own shirt and inspected himself with care. His body bore many scars, but these were fresh. His fingers left five reddened spots just above the ribs. Five burns of invisible flame.

_Grey wind grinding adamant walls._

He rolled on his side, trying to shake off nauseous thoughts. The dawn painted horizon bleak golden - he could see it under the tent flap. He pulled his robe on with a low groan and rolled out.

Verilia was already up. Squatting in front of her tent, she wangled embers in a campfire with a muddy branch. She seemed strangely pale today, almost sickly. Anders filled a small cauldron with water and carefully situated it above the firepit. For a few moments they sat next to each other, shoulders touching, watching water slowly heat up to a rolling boil.

"So." Anders looked at her very closely. "Are we lost?"

Verilia's face didn't change. "I told you we're not."

"You told that to Hawke. Not to me."

The forest around them was quiet as an abandoned house. Anders rubbed his forehead, trying to wake up. 

Verilia's small, rough hand rubbed his forearm. "You fine, Master?"

He stood up, praying that his face is not too pale to give away his fear.

"We should get going."

They stripped the camp in absolute silence. Hawke was still glooming about yesterday-- or it might've been something else; Anders stopped keeping track of bad news since last night. The day changed from golden to colorless white. Verilia carried the sword on her shoulder, unsheathed. They ventured on, carefully stepping into each other's footprints.

When the former campsite has vanished behind the oaks, Verilia stopped so abruptly Anders had no choice but to bump into her back. Cursing under breath, he looked around. The forest was looking back at him with the usual faceless mass of color green, lone spots of gold resembling burning eyes.

"Now what?" Hawke grumbled from behind.

"Shh. Listen."

From the shrubs several feet on their left came a low menacing sound. Clicking, snapping rattle, a handful of cobblestones shaken in a jar. _R-r-r-r-click, click-click-clack._ Its timbre was unstable. It grew louder. Closer.

"Move!"

Anders tripped over his robe as Hawke's hands pushed him, hard, away from the footpath. Second later, the spot he previously stood on was covered in thick mucous substance, its long strands tagging back to the shrubs. Hawke's blades whistled through the wind, cutting it like butter. Without thinking much, Anders clenched his fist; the air around became icy cold. The creature rushed toward them from its ambush on multiple leg pairs, moving at alarming speed. Its clacking mandibles made that loud noise, _r-r-r-r-click-click!_

Andraste's ass, that thing was big. Freaking enormous. Last time he saw a spider this size was in the Deep Roads. And he _hated_   the Deep Roads. Almost twice his height, black and hairy and six-eyed, this monstrosity clutched its jaws and redundant legs in anticipation. Evidently, it was preparing for a feast.

Anders didn't have time to plan. Blood pumped into his head as he knelt on the wet soil and buried his fists into the moss. The frost spread like a net, green to silver, black to white. The spider hissed, its legs trapped in frozen mud. Its carapace jerked viciously back and forth; the ground shook with it. In the corner of his eye Anders spotted Hawke's light shadow high above the shrubs; the rogue leapt and hit as lightning, swift slicing motions full both of strength and grace. The air reeked of metal; the beast curled up defensively, gushing small fountains of dark-blue blood all over itself. Hawke's battle cry rang through Anders' ears, hot adrenaline thumping in a rabid rhythm. The monster squealed so loud it deafened them; Hawke managed to chop off one of its digits before another one pinned him to the ground with a sharp claw. He growled and yelled something like, "You hairy-legged idiot!!" Anders raised a hand to cast another spell...

 _Swooshhh_.

The spider stopped as if paralyzed. Its legs twitched several times, and then its body fell into the grass, severed in two parts. A pool of blood overflowed the roadside and filled the footpath in a thick stream. Hawke finally managed to free himself from the creature's grasp, hopped back and spun around with a bewildered look.

Verilia slowly wiped her greatsword with a large leaf. 

"Ugh." She grimaced; her hands were slimy from creature's bodily fluids. "Sorry about that. I forgot about the nest... you two were quite the sight tho'."

"Thanks." Hawke hid his daggers. His clothes were stained. Grunting in disgust, he wiped his fingers. "Wait. You forgot _,_ so you knew. So... you _do_ know where we are?"

"Of course." Verilia shrugged and straightened up. "I told you, Champion, we ain't lost."

"I counted our turns. That's not the right way."

"What do you mean?" An innocent question in her eyes.

"What I mean is that we're all grown-ups here. You march without telling us a word, then a giant spider attacks us, and all you have to say is that you _forgot_. So before I decide to dance with you instead of this thing, will you please explain where in the Maker's name are we going?"

His words hit sharp like knives. A pause rang with tension. Verilia stared back at him crossly. Anders took a moment to catch a flash in her black eyes. An ominous, dark flash.

"Will you answer to him or not?" he asked.

She glanced at him, at Hawke, at him again. It seemed for a moment like she was assessing the potential consequences of what she was about to do. Maybe she considered running. At last, her shoulders relaxed, and she sunk onto her knees and let out a deep sigh.

"Fine!" Her throat vibrated in a groan. "Agrrh! Just... sit. Both of you."

Hawke crossed his arms. "I can stand."

The elf closed her eyes. She looked uneasy, like a tight knot of muscles. Suddenly, Anders was struck with a realization that plummeted his mind in shock: She was scared. Not of spiders, not of the forest, and not even of Hawke. He paused to fixate on her pained expression. No one would ever guess Verilia knew such thing as fear.

"You asked me who I used to be," she began in hoarse voice. "I was a mercenary. The butchery-fo'-coin kind. My boss would send me to Hinterlands when he needed a deal watched over. Or a muscle for 'em roads. I'd blend in with other elves in the village. Without alienages we tend to stick together. Slimmer chance of gettin' killed or kidnapped. I was a stranger to them. No real name, no connections. But they were good to me. I... felt somethin'. Warm. Homelike." A bitter laughter. "Three years back, a whole pack of 'em elven kids went missin' from that village. Others started disappearin' soon. Even shems."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Was nobody looking for a whole lot of missing children?"

"No one wants to look for elven kids. That's why they're easy prey. Anyhow, it was all chaos back then and, y'know... kids get lost. That's what they do. They hide or fall from somewhere or just forget to return. The Inquisition had their hands full. They overlooked it."

"And how is this connected to us wandering in Brecillian Forest?"

"When I heard from Master, I was up north. I took this route to reach Grinsorrow sooner. And I... This'll sound crazy. But I know what I saw." She turned to Anders, eyes full of despair. "You'll believe me, won't you? I... saw someone."

He tilted back, astonished. _Damn her eyes, her disarming, screaming eyes._

"Alright." He tried to sound calm. "I believe you. What... _whom_ did you see?"

"A girl. Right over there, half a mile east. I... knew her back then. Her mum let me stay the night. I just wanted to check."

Anders wasn't sure what to say. This story was nothing like he expected.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Do you know many shemlen who help lookin' for elven girls?" She spat in sudden anger. "Anyhow, I just wanted to make sure. That I was wrong. That there's nothin' here."

Anders already opened his mouth to object that yes, he knows a shemlen who will help an elf, even too often so, and that this shemlen is standing right behind him - but Hawke interrupted by simply raising his palm. For the first time his face was tender, attentive.

"You didn't have to lie about it," he said softly.

A cloud drifted across the sky, showing a ray of sunlight for the first time today. It caressed the forest gently, warmed Anders' cheeks, glowered through Hawke's hair, blazed on the edge of Verilia's sword. Hawke breathed in the smells of grass and drying blood. Then he lightly slapped Anders' shoulder. Anders glanced at him with surprise: a friendly smile tickled the corner of the rogue's mouth. That adventure hungry look when the heavy emotional part is over and there is excitement to be had. Some things never change.

"Alright," he declared, "since we're already here, let's find ourselves some elven sons and daughters!"

Verilia's face was confusion made flesh.

"Wait, you... you mean you'll help?" Her eyes narrowed with distrust. "Just like that?"

Anders sighed. "It's not like we have anything better planned."

And that is when she smiled. She barely ever smiled like that, truly warm, happiness piercing through her every bit. She stared at Hawke like he was some kind of fantastic creature from fairy-tales. Like she was five years old and just got the best birthday gift in her life.

"You're a special one, you are."

Which made one wonder if she even received gifts as a kid if an act of support was such a precious delicacy for her.

They did not fit on the footpath all together, but Hawke still insisted they hold hands while walking. Verilia squeezed his palm in a nervous, greedy manner, as if it was a piece of bread she'd stolen from the pantry.

They were happy. It made Anders feel warm. At least for now they were safe, they smiled, though the smiles were weak.

Wolves smell their prints and the hunt begins. Grey wind is grinding adamant walls.


	5. the orb

Last time he heard the Calling was in Wimmark. Only Hawke's blade between him and mad-driven extermination. He saw the pillars caving in above his head, and then he was trapped, a tiny part screaming, beating, as Justice took over the rest.

The next thing he knew was Hawke's desperate sobbing, the warmth of blood, the pain that almost made him black out again. _What did I do? Where have I been? Is this your blood, or is it mine?_

Wardens told him the song comes and goes like tide. Some days are better than others. This episode might end soon as well. But it might be too late by then. What will happen to him, to what little remains of Justice, when the Calling comes? Will he turn into an abomination and have to be put down like a rapid dog? Will it overcome him slowly, bit by bit claiming what he holds precious: his memories, his intellect, his passions... All he has worked on, all his discoveries, magical talents.

And Hawke. To think how easy it would be to destroy his most sacred treasure. To picture these golden-brown eyes still and empty. Cold hands squeezed in his own. Never seeing his smile again, never hearing his laughter. It was too much.

He knew it would come, eventually. Just not now. He was promised more time. Ten years, twenty years. The sad fact, however, was that Grey Wardens were no scientists. For all their pride in holding darkspawn back, research gathered over the centuries presented no coherent explanation of what the Blight is, where it comes from, how it affects living beings and how long it takes to consume them. Rare accounts on said matters have been made secret or declared heresy and destroyed by the Chantry. So much for 'those who bring harm to His children'. Wardens only had their experience, their veterans, their fallen brethren. And like with death, one only could answer the Calling once, and did not return to tell the tale. This is why they felt like family. To forego the Joining was not merely a commitment to the order - it was a commitment to the unknown, a road one walks blindfolded. And alone. Whoever you were in your old life, whatever your heritage, you were now face to face with darkness so unkind to the living, so frightening, that it tolerated no sign of prejudice and hatred.

And now it was here. He never thought it would be so... melodic. In Wimmark, the whisper was disturbingly unsound in structure, rhythmless, rhymeless - unnatural. Something that should never have existed. Yet it persisted, drilled into his thoughts: _grey wind, adamant walls_. That's how Grey Wardens know their time has come. You cannot mistake that sound for any other.

He only had one option in mind. The usual one. If things go bad, he runs.

He first ran off when he was twelve. There was no catch: he straight forward jumped into lake Calenhad while nobody was looking. He swam across and almost drowned twice. He was a gangly undergrown kid; heavy robe pulled his body down; his mouth was full of water - but he kept going anyway. When his feet finally touched solid ground on the other side, he was out of breath and freezing to the bone. His muscles ached. He fell into the tide, too tired to think, grabbing wet sand with his little fists. Freedom smelled like sweat and raw fish.

He was caught and brought back a week later. His flight awaited no punishment. They simply took him back, musing at his feat between each other; they were sure he hadn't reached the shore. After that, however, there was no more walking in the courtyard for imprisoned mages. Silent treatment from his roommates was worse than beating.

The second time was when two apprentices (completely by accident, of course) decided to practice elemental magic at leisure and set the dormitory on fire. While senior enchanter and three templars were busy putting out chaos, Anders stole the key to lower levels. Rumors were, there were ancient catacombs under the tower that spread all the way to the caverns in Frostbacks. Anders was half-way down the stairs when a boy roughly his age came out of the corridor on the right. He stared at the fugitive, unsurprised. Anders stopped, breaths still fast from running.

"You'll get in trouble," the boy said matter-of-factly. "Again."

He stepped into a lightspot. He was tall, sharp in features and had a pair of charming grey eyes. Anders tapped his foot nervously, peeking over the shoulder for potential chase.

"What's your name?"

"They... call me Anders."

"I'm Karl."

Loud stomping of armored men came from behind; Anders sprinted towards the corner of the staircase. He barely rushed into hide when the stern voice of Knight-Captain asked, "Have you seen a boy running by, child? About your age, rather thin, blond hair..."

"I have," Karl answered. "He went over there."

Anders gasped. The stomping carried on... in direction opposite of the ladder. Anders let out a relieved huff, wiped the beads of cold sweat from his forehead and ventured forth.

From day one running becomes his second nature. He grows weary of suspicious looks, his own face looking at him from the posters on the Chantry's board. He spends nights under bridges and in abandoned sheds. Each escape leaves him more asserted in solitude. He distances himself from other mages, inconspicuous change in attitude - shallow smiles, hollow amicability. He forgets how to have friends. It is safer this way. Stability is luxury. It will take him three years after meeting Hawke to give up isolation.

One, two. Long lectures on higher morality. Long evenings alone in the chapel. Karl's hand covering his; passing notes during lessons,  _have you heard? Thekla and that lanky one!.._  Three, four. Red scars on his back, blue marks around his wrists; Karl's tears, candle soot, _it's not forever._ Five, six; three hundred days in a black pit, walls closing in, he's scared, _somebody, anybody, please!._. Three hundred days. Claustrophobia is replaced by depression. He talks to mice. Occasionally they answer. He bangs on the walls in blind rage; no one comes. Three hundred days. His mind will never function properly again. As he walks out, his eyes are teary and red, devoid of all joy. Knight-Captain Rylock is assigned to him as personal supervisor. Seven. Darkspawn attack his guards; freedom this time smells like burning flesh. Warden-Commander is first in years to treat him like a person. He even calls her a friend. Not for long. Darkspawn blood tastes of higher sacrifice; eighth time there is no templars on his tail. The dawn is yet to come as he abandons Vigil's Keep. Lights flash on his new uniform. Warden-Commander will find a letter on her desk. She deserves at least that much.

And even as it broke his heart, he was preparing to flee from Hawke as well. The light of his life, the one without whom none of this would matter. To safe his life.

There he is. Frowning in his sleep. Pink scars on dark flesh. He lost left ring finger in a fight four years ago. His noble features sharpened after many battles. He sleeps with a dagger on his chest.

Whatever comes, the answer is simple. Run and hide. Pray if you have the words. A scared kid, an edgy teenager, a tired grown man - you will run until your lungs are filled with blood and the air tastes like molten metal, and then you will run some more. 

 

***

"You're very quiet." Hawke's voice came purring near his ear. They camped about an hour ago when it started raining out of blue. Despite the day being only half-way through, strange exhaustion overcame them once they have reached the outskirts, an irresistible desire to lay down for a minute and rest. Which, after some fruitless resistance, they did. Hawke used this time to nap. Anders was reading.

"My being quiet interferes with your sleep?" He folded the corner of a page and closed the foliant. It didn't work as a distraction anyhow.

"Not really, no." Hawke rolled over, pressing his forehead against Anders' shoulder. Raindrops drummed upon the tent, but the inside was snug and dry. Hawke put his palm on Anders' waist, and everything slipped into abyss.

Dark thoughts come with the rain. The song is entwined in its steady sound. Hawke feels it through Anders in an habitual way - you know one's ups and downs if you live together long enough, in spite of not understanding them in full. In spite of secrecy. Anders purrs, hands warming his hips, bringing his mind back, in present. Here, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, there is no darkspawn and no archdemons. Only a large bearded man with a smile full of sun. His hand casually slides down Anders' thigh. It traces the waist curve, then reaches a bit lower, pressing a bit tighter. Just a bit. A question asked with his fingertips. A suggestion. Hawke may slaughter people for fun but with Anders, he's always gentle. Always asking permission, waiting for a nod. And when it comes, always noticing any change, ready to back away if needed.

"Ah, Master..." A hum, an amused laughter. "You're blushing."

He tampers with the robe until it loosens enough to let his hands in, to let him caress Anders' ribs, abdomen, inner thigh - all with great care, as if his precious mage was made out of glass. Not further, not just yet.

"I'm blushing because you're filthy." Anders tries to sound sarcastic. A tricky affair when you're half-naked. "And... umh."

"Mm? You were saying?"

The heat that tickles the skin. It's already enough to make Anders forget what he was just thinking about. He lets out a deep sigh. Hawke's hand slides in his underwear. Light motions. Warming, hardening. And the kisses, oh Maker, the kisses! Little weightless kisses down the shoulder. Tender, playful, surgically precise. He shifts back, afraid of being noisy; another hand helpfully covers his mouth. Hawke strokes him in a lazy rhythm, going all the length up and down, his face shining with a sly grin. Bastard. An act of comprehensive speech seems unrealistic; Anders whimpers, helpless in Hawke's arms. His head is spinning. His captor, however, has bigger plans.

"Let's see if I can make you a bit more vocal..." Soft whisper barely touches his ear. He arches his back, body aching from frustration: _more, more_. He wiggles in Hawke's arms and bites his index finger. Instant punishment, distant hands, slower moves.  _Don't be greedy, ask nicely._  Never allowing him to dissolve in the feeling, never letting him slip out of the now. All he can utter is a coy, muffled sound.

"Hmf!.."

Hawke's fingers brush his wet lips.

"Try again."

Hawke loves playing with people. Making them shout what they really want. It gives him thrills. Palms sticky from sweat, precum and hot breath. Every time Anders' heart starts beating too fast, blood gets too hot - Hawke slows down a little bit and waits. The sweet torture lasts until Anders cannot take it, until he's ready to cry out loud.

"Oh, Garrett!.."

His strained moan is rewarded with rough strokes that bring him to the brink of orgasm. He trembles. Pink spots dance before his eyes as Hawke murmurs, "Much better. I like it when you use my name."

The rain is tapping on the tent _._ Anders hisses, barely catching his breath. "I hate you so much."

He uses one hand to tidy himself up and another to ruffle Hawke's messy hair. In depths of the rogue's eyes, little sparkles of excitement dance, as if he had been to the fanciest Orlesian ball. Overwhelming joy in most trivial tasks - a feature Anders cannot stop marveling at.

Hawke laughs happily - a sound that splits in droplets like rain.

"Go ahead, take revenge one day! You know I'm still on board with that electricity thing you do."

_Maker, and you have no idea what you mean to me. What all of this means. It is a game to you, a child's play._

They cuddled and stared into the ceiling. Anders counted their breaths. He focused on the way the air is warmed in the lungs, the way it passes down the throat, distributes in alveoli - all the small processes that aid derealization. Not scared anymore. Not running. He was happy to breathe out for at least a minute - to forget the melody.

"Do you think we'll find anything?" Hawke raised his left hand to touch the shadow of a raindrop on the tent's wall. The shadow twitched and ran down. Anders hummed. 

"No. But for her, I'll look. She's been a good friend to me, and she didn't have to."

"How did you even find someone like her?"

"I went fishing."

"You hate fishing."

"Not when it results in cradling pretty women in my arms... Ouch!" He squirmed as Hawke planted a whack into his ribs. He pushed back with his elbow; they struggled, giggling under breath, rolling among thick wool blankets.

"Stop, stop!"

"You started it!"

Anders laughed and rolled onto his back.

"Seriously though, I trust her. She has... skills. If there is anything to look for in these woods, she'll find it."

"And then what? Would you become a father to a dozen elven kids?" Hawke laughed again. He laughed so much now even Anders was getting nervous. 

"Living with you is already like raising a twelve-year-old. Plus a horrifying beard."

"Lies!" Hawke nudged him with false indignation. "My beard is fabulous and everybody loves it."

He sat up, scarcely leaving any room under the ceiling, fished a black ribbon out of his pocket and tied his locks into a quick knot.

"Come on, let's go grab your precious friend and check out the outskirts one last time."

"We better get out of here soon. This place is creepy."

Verilia met them in full armor, blade balanced on her shoulder. She sought cover under an oak, occasional raindrops silvering her clothes and ginger curls. She had that little wrinkle between her eyebrows, a sign of anxiety. How long has she been waiting?

"Master, you're up." Her tone, usually lazy, rich with crisp consonants and stretched vowels, now rang tense like a bowstring. "You'll have to see this."

She turned without further due and stepped deeper into the shadows, away from the camp. Mildly in a daze, Anders peeked left and right as they walked, climbing over large roots and hunkering down to avoid low-growing branches. The forest was the same indifferent spirit, centuries old, untouched by their presence - thus unsettling. Anders tilted back slightly, trying to see the sky. He was astounded to find only treetops high above, their yellowish-emerald cloaks hiding everything that may have lied beyond.

And from everywhere came two sounds - the song of the rain and the song of the taint. He stopped, eyes tightly shut. His head vibrated on the inside, he could feel the pulse of blood getting higher and lower, and a faceless beast arose, unwinding its ribbon-like body, somewhere deep below, underneath the surface - just enough to keep out of his reach. And he knew its name, and he knew that its eyes are blue.  _Go away. Leave us alone. I want nothing with you, not now, not ever._

"We're almost there." Verilia waved them to proceed through the shrubs of fern, wide leaves of which covered her completely and in addition had her soaked in rainwater. Hawke took out a dagger, and several sliding moves later the path was clear. They went onward, eyeing the surroundings with suspicion. Wet fern rustled gently under their feet. Once they caught up with their guide, she stopped, pointing to their right.

"There. Look."

Anders stared and couldn't quite gather what he was looking at.

It resembled a shard of a coastal reef. Rough-edged, covered in shapes similar to the traces of fossilized organisms on a rock substrate. Except it was round, monochromatic, and stood on a hand-carved pillar encrusted with metal. Several sharp peaks crowned its higher pole, giving it an abstract form of a falling star. Vibrant green waves of light floated around its surface. And as if that was not enough, it was _audible_. Its soft, non-intrusive whisper was familiar like a distant family member. Anders could hear this whisper through the song of the rain and the song of the taint - comforting, soothing. He's been hearing it since he was twelve. It was the whisper of magic.

To say the object looked bizarre was to put it mildly. Outlandish - here, in the middle of the forest, whereas it would rather belong in some merchant's collection of peculiarities from around Thedas. Although Anders looked at it and could not place it; there was no location, no time period, no field of magical studies to which this oddity could possibly belong.

"Ooh! A magic thingy!" Hawke eyed the object over Anders' shoulder. His face was shining like a new sovereign. "What is it? Can I touch it?"

Anders slapped his palm. "What is it between you and touching every weird magical artifact we come across?"

"Touched you once, now I cannot stop."

Verilia coughed loudly enough to intercept their giggling. "Any insight on what it is?"

 _I can tell you what it isn't_ , Anders almost blurted, but held on to it for the sake of self-preservation. The object sparked his interest. Its shape was both primal and elegant; it was evidently very old; it was powered by magic which no animate entity was providing. If no spirit was bound to it, then it must have maintained a magical flow on its own, either from a nearby source or from the Fade itself. Like one of those charms he used to craft, but bigger. Some charms have healing properties, other work as auxiliary magic sources. Some provide simple defenses. Some just glow and look pretty. This thing - what does it do?

"I think... I don't know. It's magical alright. Doesn't look dangerous. Feels... odd." He took a step closer to inspect the object in full detail. "Could it be a beacon of some sort? Or maybe a landmark..."

Up close the surface of the artifact appeared smooth as silk, almost flawless, as if it was not carved but smelted out. Only what kind of fire would melt rocks?

"We found one of those in the Hinterlands," he added. "Agreed to stay away from it, just in case. Then a friend of mine saw the Inquisition troops lurking in that area. Were they looking for this?.."

"Must've missed this one, they did." Verilia squatted in front of the artifact and gave it a long heavy look. "So it ain't disintegrate-you magic, hmm?"

"Not if I can tell."

They kept looking at the artifact for a good minute. In vain. Mysterious light shimmered green and otherwise did nothing of notice. It appeared someone just randomly decided to post a magical lantern in the middle of nowhere. Doubtfully, however, was it as simple as that.

"Hey Vel," Hawke called from few feet away. "I have something here."

Anders turned, thinking that at least this situation cannot get any weirder. He was wrong. Hawke stood under a tree and studied the ground under his feet.

Footprints. They were tiny. No larger than a man's hand. Some bare, their toes little cute dimples in mud. Others in shoes. Little shoes, still bigger than a child's foot. In rural Ferelden kids were often expected to fit into their siblings' footwear. Shoes aren't cheap, so you have to make do. He remembered his mother buying shoes for him: she would measure his little foot with a ribbon and sigh, and her eyes would turn wistful for some reason. And he would wish there was a spell to stop his feet from ever growing bigger. And she would explain it's not his fault. It's just that seeing him grow makes her realize how fleeting the time is.

Verilia's eyes lit up as she covered a print with her little palm. Black fire of longing and homesickness, so new for Anders - he almost pitied her. The footprints chased off into the woods, traced loops around puddles - and disappeared in the shrubs.

"Well, good news," she murmured, "We found our gang. These are fresh."

"What should we do?" Hawke gazed around as if he was hoping to see a bunch of children hanging around, waiting to be saved. Verilia pointed the direction in which the prints streamed.

Anders took a few steps and stopped.

_No. Not here._

It was sharp. Burning. His vision blackened. Blood pumped hard in his temples, rhythmic melody. It isn't right. It's not supposed to sing. It's not supposed to be so strong...

_Go away. I am not yours yet. There are people who need my help._

The forest rang with it. It shook the ground, reverberated from the trees--it was _outside_ , not in his head. No, no, this is not right, this is not the song. He fell, holding his head with both hands; the green became red, the sky went black. He could hear himself scream at the top of his lungs, a horrible, flesh-scrubbing sound. The pain, Maker, the pain!

_I am. Not. Yours._

 

And then it stopped.

He focused. Listened closely. Nothing. Just silence. Peaceful, normal silence. Whatever this thing was, it was gone. He still had no clue what in the Maker's name he has been hearing for the past two days, but he was delighted it was no longer haunting him.

He opened his eyes and looked around. At first, nothing seemed to have changed. Same trees, same shrubs. The rain has stopped though.

Verilia and Hawke were not there. He was alone.

His first reaction was panic. Somewhere in the corner of his mind a stupid thought flashed: he killed them in blind rage. But there was no blood on him, no signs of struggle. Even the grass around him was untouched, as if he had not moved an inch. But if his friends are not here, then surely he has moved - and now he's somewhere else, lost in the woods. This was a little better than the first thought, though still not comforting. At least, however, he could try to find his way back. If he stands up and waves, maybe they'll see him. So long as they aren't far...

"You're not supposed to be here."

He turned so quickly it threw him off balance. Waving his arms like a bird and trying not to fall, he looked down.

She was around eight, by human standards. You can never really tell with elves - they age at different rate. She was dressed in what looked like a pile of leaves and fur sewn together, but at closer inspection turned out to be a dress. Anders contemplated it for a few moments and came to a conclusion that it was held together by living vines. How it was possible, he did not know, and at this point was too afraid to ask. The girl stared back at him with no fear, no surprise.

"Who are you?"

Her voice echoed amongst the trees.

"I'm Anders." He was not certain what kind of answer she'd expected. Puzzled, he was still decisive on finding the others. "Have you seen my friends? One of them is tall and has a beard. The other is short and... well, an elf."

"They're on the other side."

This cryptic answer had confused him completely. How could they be on the other side of anything when all he did was making a few steps?

His new acquaintance kept studying his face. Her eyes were very bright, almost glowing. Her head was crowned with flowers; short locks framed her face to make it look lovelier.

"Are you a spirit?" she asked, looking Anders directly in the eye. The question was unexpected; he hesitated.

"Uhm, no. Not really." He suddenly had a feeling that she could see through him. That she knew what he is. "Why do you ask?"

Maeven cocked her head.

"Only spirits may come in. She said we'll be safe here." Her tone was serene. "Did you come to hurt us?"

"Us? You mean there are others?"

"Lady won't like it if you hurt us. You should leave."

He knelt before her, patting feathers on her makeshift gown, ruffling leaves as if he could not believe she was actually there.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone. Can you take me to your Lady? I need to ask her a few questions."

"Alright. But you have to be nice to her. Lady doesn't like those who aren't nice."

"I'll be nice, I promise."

She ran off and waved for him to follow. Anders looked around. Not seeing Hawke alarmed and weighed on him. But maybe it will all become clear as soon as he meets this Lady. So that is where he went - down the footpath stomped by two dozens of tiny feet, after the girl who called herself Maeven.

She led him further and further. The forest turned denser and denser. Large branches obstructed the way, their wide leaves stealing more and more light. Maeven easily passed underneath them, but her follower had to bend. Wet soil splashed under her bare feet. Her ankles were black from dry mud. Anders lost her once, then twice, then he only could hear her footsteps up ahead and follow blindly. He thought he'd noticed other children once or twice - faces spotted in dirt, wide eyes following him with curiosity. He heard someone laugh behind him. A few bird calls here and there. But no wind. No rain. Everything was so still.

Suddenly, the trees ended. They stood in a clearing in the center of which a pond shimmered in the sunlight. Despite its muddy shores, it was crystal clear. Anders could even see bright-colored fish swooping back and forth below its surface. Maeven stood ankle deep in water. He approached cautiously; his grip on the staff hardened.

Maeven lowered her fingers into the water. Her lips parted, though not a whisper came out. The water rippled, boiled, and a large stone rose to the surface, still covered in seaweed and shells.

"There she is," Maeven whispered. "Remember to be nice!"


	6. after sparrows three times call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> missed me? .D thanks for your patience if you've stuck around.  
> NB: I changed a few things in the previous chapter to make it plot compliant. if you're following this work, you might want to jump back a bit.  
> NB (2): I used the Dragon Age wiki to construct phrases in elven with whatever grammar patterns I could spot. say, 'anthim' means 'humility' and it looks like the prefix 'tel-' is used to antagonize an action (like tel'enfenim, meaning 'fear not'. one could argue a proper elf would rather use 'never' and say 'harellan anthim banal'dirthara' but imho both seem valid). so 'harellan anthim tel'dirthara' means 'traitors never learn humility' or 'treacherous one knows not of humility'. 'Mar dirth eth'ara' would be the way to say 'your secrets are safe [with] me' or, literally, 'I am the safety of your secrets'.  
> NB (3): yes, I promised the cure from the Blight, and I shall deliver. patience :)

There once was a boy who could really use a friend and a demon who wanted to be his friend very, very much.

In the South, that's how you begin a scary tale. Everyone is afraid of demons. And anything to do with the Fade, by association. The Chantry has been fueling that fear for nine centuries before it fell, to the point where slightest traits of magic were considered sinful. The new Divine has not yet been around long enough to affect the long-term issues of generations past--mind you, she was busy abolishing the Circles altogether. Mundane censorship was the least of her concerns.

Where knowledge sleeps, minds breed monsters. Chantry priests filled them with concepts both simplistic and dangerous. 'The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil and grew jealous of the life. They could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.'

The reality is more complicated. Spirits feed on emotions. To them, one's suffering is more a definition of personality than a man's face or the color of his hair. Demonic form is brought not by jealousy but by twisting the spirit's purpose, by feeding it with violent, tainted intentions. It can be compared to poisoning or starvation. It is debatable whether spirits can feel pain; if they do, turning them into demons must be a torturous experience. Starved Love turns to Jealousy. Wisdom and Valor fall prey to Pride. Poisoned Justice becomes Vengeance, and Compassion grows into Despair.

Twisted spirits may stay that way for centuries. It is not well understood why they crave possession of mortal bodies outside the Fade; perhaps it sates their hunger for awhile. Or they are simply confused when nothing changes at their whim. Whether restoring their peaceful nature is possible also remains a mystery. Circle scholars used to have theories on the matter, but the old Chantry wouldn't give such research a go in a lifetime. It always infuriated Anders when secrets were burnt out from the pages. Entire volumes would go missing--banned, blacklisted. It was not enough for the Chantry to rob mages of freedom; it wanted their very essence. It bludgeoned propaganda instead of knowledge into their heads. It replaced their curiosity with fear.

And that's why Anders felt lost.

The Lady's figure flickered in the air, shape mimicking reality without merging with it. Its soft curves evinced strange sense of comfort. She was a floating cloud, a reflection in the water, forest and rain. Seaweed streamed down her shoulders; her chubby arms were bog mist. She was fidgeting a handful of wet pebbles between the fingers. When she spoke, her voice skipped his ears, penetrating mind instead.

_You are not welcome in our sanctum, mortal. Who are you? How did you pass the wards?.. Ah, I see. You brought a piece of it within you. A tiny piece... I feel its longing. But it is twisted, hurting... What have you done, spellbinder?_

Anders' head was empty. Spirits are generally not ones for easy conversation. 'Very nice to see you, I'm invading your privacy on the grounds of abduction' definitely seemed like a long shot.

"I'm not..." He cast about, confused. The situation was becoming a bit awkward. "Where am I? I assume it isn't the Fade, or I'd be dead by now."

_It is no home of mine, no. But very, very close... Inside the songs, inside the changes. We came here to live in peace. We came here to forget the fighting. Here we hide. Here we are all safe._

Thank the Maker, it made sense.

There was a rhythm, that melody stuck on the verge of consciousness that he'd heard in the Calling. It would normally be just a tickling under his skin, but here more than ever - he could feel it. This gentle difference in the Veil. Like a tune variation nobody listed. Part of him marveled at what kind of ancient magic would involve such an alternation, too intricate to suggest natural origins. Another part was dreadful as to what could happen, had he in any way provoked its might.

"That's... fascinating." He cleared his throat. "The edge of the Fade... I didn't know spirits could do that."

_It was the little one who opened up their eyes. Three years ago we came to an agreement... Now it is my goal to keep them hidden._

The water splashed around the isle. Maeven climbed its rocky shores, pulling on the seaweed, knuckles scratching against the stone. Blood oozed under her skin in droplets; she covered the scratches with her other palm. Her fingers lit up. The bleeding stopped. Lady's figure glowed, catching glimpses of the spell. They danced and drowned within her mist.

"Oh."

_Dirthara lothlenan'as... bal emma mala dir._

Lady's voice streamed like a river. Anders rubbed his nose, contemplating the situation.

"Where did you even find her?"

 _It was she who found me and all the others. Then she led us in between the roads, between the battlefields... I made a promise that I would keep them safe. -_  She let out what Anders could only interpret as a deep sigh. -  _You mortals are short-sighted. When you fight, each soul, no matter old or young, is fatally infected with destruction. Your wounds spread deep across the land and through the ages, and pain yet lingers._

"People in armor came to take me,"Maeven said calmly, rocking back and forth. "They said I was a witch and that I had to be killed. But Lady killed them instead."

"Where are your parents? Did they die during the war?"

"Me and mamae lived alone. But she's dead now. What about you?"

"I lost my mother," he said, and added as a gentle suggestion, "I miss her very much."

"Where's your daddy?"

"Daddy wasn't happy with me. He sent me to prison."

Her eyes widened with excitement. "Did you escape?"

"I did." He smiled. "You're very calm about your mom, you know."

"I don't remember her. And then... the bad people are dead too, right? They're not gonna hurt me."

Her gaze shone with quiet acceptance; no fear, no despair in face of death. He felt uneasy about her. She was... different.

He was twelve when he last saw her. His own mother. Focused, he could recall her smell, touch, how she laughed. And it killed him not to know but he's forgotten the color of her eyes. She cried when the templars came for him; but what was she wearing that day? How would she braid her hair? That little boy she loved so much never made it. He died, and whatever he knew, Anders could not remember.

_You are wondering. Fret not. I took the pain from this one's little heart. Perhaps, she has forgotten more than you will ever know._

"You mean you stole her memories!" Anders' fists clenched.

_I stole naught but erased a burden far too great for this young soul to bear. I saved her endless misery, spellbinder._

"You're wrong. No one should steal memories from a child, least of all memories of her mother!"

_Is there no horror past you would like to forget? Is it so wrong to help an innocent escape this torment? If you wish to know what happened, you should ask your follower - the elf. I watched your progress from across the barrier... Indeed, you keep strange company. One, lighthearted, stands knee deep in blood. He has no fear except for losing you, and where he goes, death follows. The other one, in darkness deep, carries grim secrets. Harellan anthim tel'dirthara... Ask, spellbinder, what she regrets the most._

Blasted, why do spirits always speak in riddles? And why did it have to be in rhythm? Doesn't matter. Right now there are more pressing issues to attend.

"If you know so much, you should also know the war is over. These kids are no longer in danger. They need to go back, live among other mortals. It's the right thing to do."

_I sense truth in your words... Yes, yes. It is appropriate. However, I have one condition._

Anders sighed. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

She patted Maeven's head. _Of every child we have saved, to me this one is dearest. I would neither witness her harmed, nor part with her at all. But if I merged with her, I could abandon our shelter - guiding her still._

For a moment, he could not believe his ears.

"You honestly think I'll let you possess her?"

_I do not seek justice, only safety. I will be mindful of her soul, I swear._

"That's a great idea!" Maeven clapped, blush dancing on her cheeks. "You'd be with me at all times. I could show you everything I like, and you could still help people. We will have so much fun together!"

"No, no, no. Listen," he tried to sound convincing, "you don't understand--"

"I do. Lady will live inside my body, and if she turns into a demon, I'll become an abomination and you'll kill me."

"No one knows what could happen. The process is unpleasant, and what comes after--it marks you for life. Don't throw yourself away like that."

_It is the only way for you to take away my protegees. If not, then strike me down. I rather perish pure before you have my purpose twisted._

"No!"

Before he could respond, Maeven snapped and threw herself between them, protecting the spirit's fleeting form with her own body. Her little fists barely reached Anders' waist. Instinctive rage burnt through her blush. Anders raised a brow at her. It never occurred to him that, over time, this spirit had replaced everyone she loved. The only friend, the parent, the protector. Tearing them apart could scar the kid more than possession.

"I won't let you. I won't."

He wanted to - he had to - but could not push her away, as if some power held him back. Perhaps, she was all too sincere, that's all.

He knew what he was about to agree with was wrong. It had to be.

Had he known the future, would he merge with Justice? Vengeance would have never taken over him; he wouldn't have become an abomination; wouldn't have run from the Wardens; wouldn't have killed all those templars for what they did to Karl; he wouldn't have had the gut to lead the mage underground; wouldn't have betrayed Hawke; and Kirkwall would have never been--

"...Alright. Do it. But-" he raised an index finger- "if she starts speaking in iambic pentameter, I'll find a way to remove you."

_Your determination is comforting. At least whatever comes, this one is not abandoned. Let me prepare the other ones._

The mist moved as if the Lady was clasping; no sound followed but a light vibration, like a ripple on water surface.

They came out of the bushes, from the trees, from the earthen caves. Eldest was barely thirteen. Filthy fingernails, messy hair, wild eyes. One of them was holding a bird; its belly was torn inside out, pink guts dripping blood onto the moss. Most of them stared at Anders; he shivered - being the center of attention made him uncomfortable. Maeven tapped her foot loudly and the fuss settled down. She stood out as their leader, though she was smaller than most.

"Listen--shut up!.. Listen, the Lady wants to speak with us."

All kids turned in awe to their ghostly goddess.

_Now, heed me, little ones. The time has come to find the way back in the world of mortal souls, where you began. The roads cross here - take one that leads you home. I will... depart, for lack of better word. Know that I shall watch from the darkest void your every step. And should you find yourself alone and wandering, know that there shall be no solitude while there is the realm of dreamers._

Anders was not sure if any of that was comprehensible for a bunch of ten-year-olds. But they appeared enlightened. None of them questioned the departure. They just listened and quietly accepted.

_And you, spellbinder. This one holds many keys and opens many doors, though her own path is ever long and dark. Guide her away, somewhere she - we - can grow... and rest our head under unchanging skies._

"I'll try... The College of Enchanters won't appreciate a possessed apprentice, no matter how talented. But I've got a few rather liberal friends... I'll come up with something." He rubbed his chin, worrying. "Wait, you said she opens many doors. Does it mean that from here... you can get anywhere?"

_Not anywhere; the key is ancient elven lore, the door - unquenchable loyalty of noble beasts that since have been forgotten, cast into stone._

"The artifact! It's not a beacon, it's a keystone!"

_Such and other paths those reigning long before would often use to step into the halls of ancient kings... It matters not to you. Know only that little ones will find their way with ease. And if the dear one shall fall, know: I will come to teach you what justice is._

Anders threw his chin up. "Everyone I meet wants to teach me what justice is."

If he didn't know any better, he would be sure her mouth formed a sly grin.

_Mar dirth eth'ara._

***

"You're alive!! What happened?"

Hawke squeezed so tightly Anders heard his ribs crackle. They stood in exact same place where he had disappeared, thick greenery above darkened by the coming twilight. It was cold; the wind came a surprise and he shivered and laughed. Hawke murmured something about burning the forest to the ground if Anders wouldn't have shown soon.

"Oi, Master." Verilia smacked his back; he choked. "Good timin'. Your dovey here got so upset I thought he'd cry his eyes out... Oh."

He stepped away to reveal his new acquaintance to the public. Maeven's eyes dashed from one face to another, but she kept uptight.

"Maeven, these are my friends. This is Hawke; keep close to him if I'm not around. And this is Verilia."

"I told you we'd meet again, kid."

Maeven looked at her in silence, then asked, "Who are you?"

"You... you don't remember?"

The girl tilted her head - she didn't.

Anders began to explain the situation and stuttered at the sight of Verilia's face.

She was crying.

Her chin quivered, lips pulled down, and large drops glistened on her lashes before they fell. Anders has seen a lot. Spirits, demons, talking darkspawn, giant spiders, magic mirrors, a mabari who played diamondback and won. Nothing prepared him for this. Verilia could not cry. Not like that. Not shaking down to her little feet; not coughing, tears bubbling in her throat. In a matter of seconds, she was undone, a hardened shell cracked and crumbled to reveal the tender innards of her soul.

"Anders." Maeven touched his palm. "Why is the lady so sad?"

"I don't know."

"Shit..." Verilia sobbed. "Shit, s-soddin' shit, fuck."

She rubbed her face, trying to make the tears go away. Instead, vicious rubbing reddened her eyes and cheeks and the tip of her nose; she kept cursing. Hawke put a hand on her shoulder. He was confused; crying touched him deeply in ways Anders could not grasp.

"Admittedly, not the perfect way to greet a child," he noted. Verilia smiled through tears and started coughing again. "Hey, hey. It's alright. It's alright."

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about."

"No, I'm... I'm..." She stepped toward the girl. Anders thought she might scare her, but Maeven was not hiding. As before, she silently accepted something too grand for her to understand.

And Verilia came close and knelt before the child. The woman who murdered for gold. The woman who bathed in blood. And Maeven patted her forearm, uncertainly but with care.

"I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be sad. I'm sure it's all going to be fine. You just have to keep it up." Something in her voice drifted, like a cloud over the sun. "Mamae told me that, I think."

Verilia sobbed loudly. "You don't--don't remember her at all? How--"

Anders hasted to intervene. "She had an accident. Her memory's badly damaged. I don't think she remembers much until three years ago."

"I see."

She stared into the ground. She looked lost. She sighed and threw her head back, to where the trees whispered kindly, stretching branches into the night sky.

Silent, she followed the three of them out of the woods, two steps behind, eyes locked on soft moss. Maeven kept close to Anders. Her leafy gown rustled against his robe.

"Can I take your hand?" she asked.

"Oh, um... sure."

She clutched his knobby fingers, tender warm flesh against rubbery, worked skin. He felt awkward about it, the contact, the trust she put in him. At the same time this little creature made him feel warm and even somehow raised his worth.

At the camp, Hawke composed a kid-sized bed out of blankets. He shared his bowl and cup with the little guest; Maeven thanked him, then sat politely beside the fireplace, slurping yesterday's stew as if she was in presence of a viscount. Her shoulders got covered in goosebumps; Hawke took off his coat and wrapped it around her.

"Wouldn't think you're good with kids," Verilia noticed, watching him fill the girl's cup with hot tea. She stopped crying. Her eyes turned pink like almond flowers.

"Neither would my baby brother," Hawke answered. "Mother would leave me to babysit him and Bethany while she did housework. I hated them at first. But it got fun when they grew up a bit."

He joined them by the fire, tilting back as the flames crawled closer towards his legs.

"You really outdid yourself this time, you know," he told Anders.

"I didn't have much choice."

"Well, at least nothing exploded... So what now?"

"We still have a rat to catch." Anders looked up and pointed at the bright star to the north-west. "See that? That's the tip of Judex, The Sword of Mercy. As long as it stays in front of us, we should be fine. In theory."

"We're about a day an' half away from our destination." Verilia poured herself some tea, still looking down. "Shouldn't be much longer. After that, I'll see that the kid's brought into a safe place. If you let, Master."

For the first time he did not spot any note of mockery in her voice. He hated it when others iterated his title and she knew that. Her tone was different though. Sincerity. Not bootlicking.

"She's a smart girl. And she has magic. She will need a tutor, someone who can help develop her talents."

"Yes. I know."

He sensed a story there but decided not to pry. Verilia was not the kind of person to share just because you ask. She will tell him everything when she deems necessary.

After Maeven finished eating, her head got heavier and her eyes began to close on their own. She yawned, gracefully covering her mouth with a palm, then leaned to Anders' side and requested calmly, "I'd like to rest now."

He nodded. "I think we all deserve some rest."

He excused himself from the fireplace to take her to bed. Hawke began to stand up but Anders stopped him with a gesture - _I got this_.

Maeven curled up in the corner of Verilia's tent, covered with many blankets. Anders lent her his shirt as a nightgown. It almost reached her ankles. From her hair came a faint scent of marsh water, o reminder of green fogs hanging above the pond, of distant light glittering in the water.

"Lady always sang to me before bed," she suggested, peeking out of the blanket nest. Anders blushed.

"I'm not a good singer. But I can stay here until you fall asleep, if that's fine with you."

"Alright," she pronounced, before her eyes finally closed and her breaths deepened, raising the covers lightly above her shoulder. Anders tucked her up.

She slept and he gradually sorted out everything that happened.

In his story, he skipped letting Maeven be possessed by a spirit. His friends would unlikely understand his motives. Not even Hawke. Better to watch the girl closely in the upcoming days and see what she is capable of.

Then, there was the whole falling-through-the-Veil business. Elven lore wasn't his field of expertise. Elves were crazy and their magic did weird shit magic is not supposed to do. What interested him more was a certain aspect of it. The song.

It was the andrastians' belief the Blight was a curse cast upon the magisters after they defiled The Golden City. Anders used to resent the myth; after encountering Corypheus, he wasn't sure what to think. No, of course it was not the Maker's doing. Maker loves all His children, He forgives the sinners, He welcomes the refused and rejected. Why would He curse all of Thedas, generation after generation, for what some selfish prick of a magister did a thousand years ago? No, the Blight had to come from elsewhere, from some natural source. Even say Tevene boogeymen did exist--they could have contracted the infection in several different ways. Maybe they were exiled and went into the Deep Roads. That wouldn't explain the archdemons, but at least it was less annoying than 'the mages governed themselves and that resulted in the greatest catastrophe of known history'.

The Fade. It had to have come from the Fade. That would explain why the rhythm of the Calling synchronized with the rhythm he heard in other realm, and why he started to hear the Calling in the first place. Perhaps the Calling is connected to the Veil--but how?..

His thoughts were interrupted by the voices coming from outside. He snapped out, listening. Hawke and Verilia were having a conversation.

"...so he turns to me and says, 'living with you is already like raising a twelve-year-old'. Well, look who's talking."

"Ha ha!" Verilia's rusty laughter rocked around the camp. She stopped only at Hawke's _shush_. "Y'know, I'd never see 'im get married. Not that he's not sappy enough for that, but... doesn't the ol' man hate the Chantry?"

"He does. And that's kind of the trick. We aren't _actually_ married. We just call each other that because, hell, why not? Marriage is supposed to be about family. That's what we are."

"So you're in a fake marriage with a fake home, and now he brought you a fake daughter."

"Has anyone told you you've got an unbearably large mouth?"

"Just sayin', Champion. No harm."

" _Some_ done."

A pause followed. Anders mentally cursed at Hawke's inability to keep private things private.

"When I first met him, I didn't think we'd get along so well. He was just... weird."

"Figures. What happened?"

"I had a firsthand experience of how Kirkwall treats Fereldan refugees. My sister and I spent a year doing dirty work while every citizen spat in our faces. I didn't care how much blood we'd have to spill as long as my family was fed. It wore harder on Bethany, I guess. She's more of a peaceful type. Warden's life is hardly suitable for a woman like her... Anyway, we come into that slum in the Undercity - me, Bethany, my friend Varric and Aveline, the guard captain. So I open the door into the clinic, there are refugees crowding in- and outside, and it's just... _clean!_   So clean everywhere! And this hottest blonde stands by the bedside, helping the helpless or whatever--for free. I thought, well, this is going to be quite the conflict of interests... and then he killed three templars with a single spell. That's when I was lost."

" _The Tale of The Champion_ makes you out to be quite the hero. Didn't like helping the helpless?"

"Sometimes. People are different everywhere. Some are saints, some are assholes. I liked hanging out at the qunari compound. So many friendly faces..." He spat on the ground, suddenly grim and quiet. "That city hated me. And I hated it in return. Only stayed to take care of Bethany and mother."

"And then the girl got the Blight. And your mamae--"

"Don't."

"Sorry."

They fell silent again. The fire crackled. An owl oohed in the distance. Maeven mumbled nonsense in her sleep.

When Anders thought they were about to put the fire out and go to bed, Hawke spoke up.

"Funny, you know. Watching the city burn, watching everything we've built fall... and the only thing I cared about was Anders. I thought, let those fools fight each other. What was it to me?.. But he wouldn't go. He wouldn't abandon his cause, ever. And I would burn that city again and again to protect him. I would walk into the Fade and back."

"He's lucky to have you. Dunno if he realizes that."

"He's more on the grim, tainted side. Doom upon all the world and stuff."

"He's always been an idiot."

"How did the two of you meet? He said he went fishing..."

Verilia laughed so loud he had to shush her again. "Is that--is that what he called it? Uh oh... So you wanna hear a story, hm? I suppose there's no point in hiding. But you're not gonna like it."

"Try me. You said you were a mercenary. What's your specialty? Smuggler, muscle? Assassin?"

"A huntress. It's... not the same."


	7. remember me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: body horror  
> 

She was a huntress, not an assassin. There is a difference.

The mage-templar war, the civil war of Orlais, and the political division of Tevinter have forever changed the face of Thedas. And not just for common folk. Destruction of all known peoples is bad for business; war, on the other hand, is an opportunity. Many underworld companies profited immensely in the years Thedas was ablaze. With rising tensions, more coin flowed into their pockets. Weaponry, political ties, abductions, assassinations - the black market thrived. Most of the profit came from two segments: lyrium trade and slavery.

Sunken into chaos, the Chantry could no longer hold its monopoly on lyrium trade. The demand spiked with mage uprising; after templars rebelled as well, some clerics voted to cut off the Order's lyrium supply in hopes of invoking their loyalty (though later the Divine condemned the ban as 'counterproductive' and 'inhumane'). The only result was further deterioration. The templars turned to smugglers for help, and soon the Carta became a dealer for both fractions. It grew so powerful even Orzammar couldn't compete with its extensive ties. Many surface gangs formed pacts with dwarven smugglers: they pulled on the strings to secure new routes, new customers. In exchange, the dwarves shared their profits.

When the Queen of Ferelden allowed mages to occupy Redcliffe, the Chantry saw it as a personal insult. Anora never hid her distrust in Val-Royeaux; after all, it was her father who helped Maric drive Orlesians from Fereldan lands. She was determined not to fall back under Orlesian influence even as the world tumbled down around her. Her focus shifted between the Grand Cathedral, the Empire in general, and the mess back home. While she and Empress Celene competed for leadership, slavers took over unprotected regions of the South. Kidnapping became easy; nowhere was safe anymore. Alienages suffered the most: Civil war meant lower social security for everyone, leaving vulnerable groups such as elves with no security at all. Whole villages vanished without a trace, and no one would even notice.

Like many others, Verilia had nothing to lose.

Of her childhood she recalled little. Raised by a distant relative, no friends, no parents. No sense of unity. She escaped in hope of finding herself a better home. Not surprisingly, her efforts bore no fruit. Who needs an underfed elven girl sneaking around their kitchen?

She was rejected more times than she could count. She was tired of shemlen calling her 'knife-ear', slamming doors in front of her, giving her oily looks. Shemlen always look at elven women as if they are property. She broke two ribs when a drunken man tried to rape her. She was alone. She was sick, starving - and only one thought throbbed in her head, kept her going. She won't die quietly. She will not surrender.

That's when her future boss found her.

His name was Marcelo. Marcelo du Moret. An Antivan-Orlesian bastard raised in a brothel by his step-sister - just about one social rank higher than an elf. They took away whatever was his chance for a normal life, those proud doglords, so wound up in their politics, so _independent_. How quickly have they forgotten what their king Maric fought for not half an age ago!

For twenty years Marcelo had been bossed and kicked and scolded, everyone's errant boy. Hard labor and total neglect of moral standards raised him high above his former employers. Now _he_ lent money to _them_ , much to their humiliation. He served in the military during the Fifth Blight. He retired, but his energetic mind never stopped working. He started a mercenary company, 'a group of talented individuals' as he called it. It accepted anyone with skill and took any job for the right wage. Marcelo held no reservations against men, women, elves, dwarves, qunari, bandits, apostates - his only criteria were talent and obedience.

What he saw in her, she wasn't sure. She only remembered being hungry, dim torchlight in a filthy tavern, and a cloaked man watching from the corner as she curled up on the floor. The boots rose and lowered, stomping her hands, head and stomach; she growled like an angry dog, and the drunkards hit her more for it. Dull pulses of pain stopped bothering her about ten minutes ago and were now a steady background to the rest of her surroundings.

When the men finished and she crawled into a corner, hissing silently with each motion, the cloaked man leaned in and asked, "Need a hand, little girl?"

"The fuck do you want?"

"You're tough. I like that. Say, how would you like to make some coin?"

"You can stop droolin' right now. I'm not into you shems."

"I wasn't going to buy you. I was going to make a proposal."

He helped her up. First time being helped. First time allowing someone's hands near.

"You see, I've got a quarrel with those fellas who just left. If you lured them into a dead end that's behind this shithole of a tavern... I could deal with them all fast an' quiet."

"What's in it for me?"

He threw a stacked pouch onto the table. It burst open, a coin rolled out. Gold! She snatched the coin, shoved it between the teeth. Real.

Why would he pay so much? What was his game? Fear and greed were tearing her apart.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure they won't get to you."

"Deal."

A hungry belly is not fed on suspicions. She's too weak not to risk it.

They gathered outside, these bastards, flushing cheeks, red noses. They are chanting something dirty. She approaches. So hungry it hurts to breathe; one of them looks down, his cloudy blue eyes staring mindlessly into hers.

"Oi brat, you want more beatin' up your ass?"

"I'd be scared if you didn't fight like a lil' girl, you stinkin' sack of mabari shit."

They turn. They're so much taller, their shadows cover her completely; hungry, so hungry.

"What did you say? Come here, you knife-eared bitch!"

Hard, cold soil under bare feet. Their boots a yard behind. They're slow, she has to keep them close. Hungry. So hungry. Their breath stinks. They reek of sweat, piss and ale. They are meat. Walking, talking meat. She's going to eat them all.

She stops in front of a wall - that's it, the dead end. If the cloaked man doesn't show up, she's dead. She cannot think about it. She must survive. They surround her, their nasty fingers inches away from her face. Hungry.

The tallest one falls first. Face down into the mud, right under her feet. And only then she sees the shadow behind him and the shining blade of a cleaver. She has never seen anyone fight so effortlessly. It seems like he's floating, like his giant body doesn't weight anything at all. His cleaver slices them like soft butter, a natural completion of his arm. They stumble, trying to catch him, hit him - but he is always one step too far. One after one, they all fall. Their blood pours into one puddle. Its stench is sharp and warm on her cheeks. The man tosses her a pouch of gold.

This is how she met Marcelo. Afterwards, he bought her dinner. Sausages and parboiled carrots, whole loaf of freshly baked bread. A cup of hot milk. He sat there and smiled like a proud father as she wolfed it all down. Her mouth filled with heavenly taste of burnt meat and rotten vegetables. When she finished, he ruffled her hair and said, "You're a bright girl. I think we can help each other. Do you read?"

She nodded. Reading was difficult, but she managed.

"Good. If you ever want to help out..." He handed her a piece of parchment with an address on it. "I've got friends there. They'll tell you what to do."

She nodded again. He gave her a smile.

"Good girl. What's your name?"

"Verilia."

"I'll be waiting for you, Verilia."

She had no illusions about this alliance. Deep inside of her traumatized brain, redundant logic has already processed all causes and consequences. She lured those men into a trap, and now they were all dead. They turned into meat on her plate.

Marcelo's company was built upon mutual benefit of its members. He picked them young, trained them into his little soldiers. "Help each other," he repeated often. "Share your skills, learn your strengths and weaknesses. Stick together." Some were assassins like him, others showed inclination for thievery, racket or smuggling. They brought the order in, their boss helped them get it done, and afterwards they would split the profit. He took large part of every boon; the rest was enough to keep them all fed and warm, but not enough to become independent.

He was only challenged once. Some members weren't content with uneven wage split. Loudest of them was an assassin, a young, skillful and charismatic man. He alone had the courage to stand up to Marcelo when the veteran asked what the fuss was about.

"Let's settle this like civilized people," Marcelo told him.

They drew their blades and the duel started. The whole company gathered to watch the fight. The kid was brave but no match for a veteran's blade. He took a wound; blood gushed onto the ground, soaking the dirt, making it slippery. Exhausted, he knelt, surrendered his sword and begged for mercy.

Marcelo slit his throat.

That is how Verilia spent her youth. She was a quick learner and picked up a lot from her master as well as from fellow thugs. When they accepted her, she was too weak to pick up a sword, had to hold it with both hands. Marcelo ordered to double her meals.

As a warrior with preference for open battle, she was not fit for an assassin. Instead, she became a huntress.

If you want someone killed without scandal, assassins are your choice. Hunting involves less finesse but more patience and brute force. Sometimes they take bounties, but mostly their prey is those who will not be looked for. This specialty is more popular among raiders, since they have always been involved in slavery. Hunters only get paid for the job well done, thus they are brutally effective in tracking down and capturing their victims. Marcelo called them 'ruthless bastards with excessive amount of brains'.

And that was Verilia's job. To hunt people down, dead or alive. Sometimes they were fully armed, wanted criminals - just like her. More often, runaway slaves, refugees, stray elves. And there was no pain behind her eyes when she dragged them off to the raider's ship or into a cell. Some of them screamed, cried, cursed her in every language and dialect. Some just stared in disbelief. They never thought their doom would be one of their own blood.  _How could you--you, of all people?_

She always got the job done. She figured, every time another ship sails away, she gets lucky not to be on it. Marcelo let her train a mabari for assistance, and in it she found the only friend. In a few years Marcelo's company became a valuable partner to several raider gangs. They needed someone inland to provide them with a fresh catch.

One tends to think of organized crime as a force of destruction, a kingdom of bones run by evil emperors who do not tolerate any sign of weakness in their ranks. The Chantry offers no salvation. It teaches that evil deeds are the resort of weak souls. 'Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever.'

The reality, however, is that organized crime is business, and its grim ways are driven by the same forces as any other trade. People want many things. Some want power or wealth, but most just want to get by.

Crime is business with one distinction. Its lower levels are nearly inescapable, so that the only way for a recruit is upwards. Each rank grants them a little more freedom, a little more hope. Verilia quickly realized she was no more valued here than in shemlen cities. Her life did not matter. Her choice did not matter. All that mattered was the coin she would bring. So long as she was good, she stayed employed.

Those who say there is no happiness in wealth don't know their luck. Verilia loved being paid. Food, wine, jewelry and women - all of it was now at her fingertips. More than that, however, she wanted to be respected. She wanted every man with an oily look to choke on it in fear as she walks by. She wanted them to ask permission before they drink their shitty ale. She wanted to show those shems that she does not need them to fix her life. That she deserves better. For that goal no price was too high. For that goal, she has taught herself to bear no mercy for elven slaves. For that goal, she drowned herself in their cries. Every time a ship sails away, it brings her closer to victory.

When her influence grew significant enough, Marcelo started letting her choose her own contracts. He even let her station independently, so she went wherever she wanted and worked whenever she felt like it. At least that was her impression, and she was content with it. She rented a room from an elven woman to watch the competitors coming Marcelo's way.

The woman had a daughter. Delightful being, she smiled when Verilia wished her good morning. The woman cooked for Verilia, tidied her room, even braided her hair. Wrinkled hands with red spots from all the cleaning she does. Raspberry stains on white dress. Only they had a secret, these two idyllic villagers. They were apostates.

She remembered spotting a red dress in the fields. The child sat among long strips of grass, covered completely by the wild flowers and nettle. She was carving something out of a piece of wood. She needed neither chisel nor hammer: The wood bent to her will, soft, pliable as clay.

"Oi kid," Verilia asked, "what you got there?"

Maeven showed her a wooden statuette. The crafting depicted a woman with a snakelike face surrounded by nightmarish creatures. Their crudely carved bodies twisted around the figurine, glimpsing with dozens of eyes.

"It's Ghilan'nain. She favors travelers. It's for you."

"Ghilan'nain? Isn't she supposed to be flowery an' nice or somethin?"

"She has two faces," was the girl's enigmatic answer.

At that time, the area of their gang's operation was a hot spot for many rival groups. It was a good place in Hinterlands, close enough to several entrances to the Deep Roads and remote enough from major travel routes. It provided both cover and income. Several companies tried to get a hold of it. Sometimes their means were more violent than others. A slow-burning war began, rendering Marcelo of resources and influence. He flip-flopped left and right to stay afloat, but the slack on his neck was shrinking. Rumors were, he became paranoid. Snapped at anything that moves. He grew cruel toward his charges, made them work day and night - more killing, more gold, more power. And when the real cruelty shows up, it is always a sign of desperation. He wanted Verilia near at all times, his personal bodyguard. He slipped.

That's when that job came in. The last one.

Marcelo picked a bounty on two would-be slaves. Something spooked them, so they ran into the woods and hid in a cave. The tunnel burrowed into the mountain and rose to the surface on the other side; if they crossed the ridge, they'd be out of Marcelo's premises.

"We'd be paid a lot for these two," he told her.

"Why them?"

"Doesn't matter. Catch them, girl, and you'll live like a queen, I promise. Take backup."

She will. She always gets the job done.

She tracks them to that cave, and her steps are silent on soft mud. She buries her feet in the grass, she dances around rocks - sharp stones won't cut her feet. While her backup makes camp at the bottom of a mountain, she runs ahead, eager to get all the praise for herself. Her dog barks and growls in anticipation, he sniffs the air: _fresh meat, mistress, fresh meat!_ She is inside, chain and rope hanging on her shoulder.

The woman rises, grabbing the wall for balance. Her face is familiar.

"You..."

Verilia stops so abruptly that the leash tightens, strangling her hound. He whimpers, unable to understand what he's done to deserve this. The woman's eyes are dry. She tightly clutches her daughter's hand.

Figures. Indeed, raiders would shower Marcelo with gold for two young apostates. He must be bitter that they are not men. Women are cheaper.

"Don't come any closer, _lethallan_. I don't want to hurt you."

Crime is business. But with one distinction. She knew it all too well, that girl with hungry black eyes, she knew it the day she met Marcelo du Moret, bastard of the Empire. She signed her death contract. The world she lived in was hungry, and she was meat. Sooner or later it would gnaw her.

And now everything she wanted lay before her. Within her reach, the respect of her betters, the rich reward. The cessation of being a victim. All she had to do was come and seize it.

And, perhaps, something snapped inside of her in that moment, because she reached not for the sword but to warn the fugitives of coming danger.

And the air grew cold. And all light died.

The apostate sunk her fingers into the stone. Her nails crumbled. Every feature in her face has lengthened in an unnatural way - almost like her bones were growing, stretching the body from the inside. Neck, ears, teeth, fingertips - they were growing, disregarding the constraints of flesh. Pale skin flushed with red and blue spots: blood flowed into the cavities from torn organs and veins. With horrifying screeching, long spikes tore through the skin and clothing on her back; they bent downwards, arched up above her. In this state her spine was hardly flexible; that creature she became could only stare into the ground, unable to straighten up. Blood and lymph poured from every hole of her body, but the inner cold, the frost of something far beyond this realm has drenched all heat from the fluids. They thickened and hung in strings, slowly drying on naked bones. Verilia heard a distant scream, a cry of a little girl and a wail of a dog. And far away - the footsteps of armored men.

She had heard of abominations before, of course. Everyone had. They were the Chantry's cautionary tale in the flesh... or whatever was left of the flesh. What stood before her exceeded any tale. It was a nightmare beyond fantasy, a broken thing barely holding together. A _thing_. Not a person.

_She is not alive anymore. Soft hands, warm hands. Raspberry stains on white dress. This is not her. This is not happening._

The monster raised its limbs; its collarbones snapped in half under disproportional pressure, and joints popped and clicked at every motion. Its claws glowed; hair-thin ribbons of light curled around the fractured skull. Verilia ditched one spell, but another hit her brain directly. Everything got foggy, contours wiggled into spirals. She lunged into the pile of limbs and bones, striking by chance; Elgar'nan, so cold, frostbite hurts more than claws and lightnings. Something grabbed her feet, bone spikes thrust into her flesh. She shrieked and fell, painfully meeting the ground with both knees. The cursed thing howled, towering over her, preparing for final blow. Muscles burned with each effort. Light glistened on the monster's fangs.

Some part of her wished she could not get up. Some part welcomed the earth beneath. The soreness and blackening of thoughts. _It will be over soon, and you can rest. So cold. The world is hungry, and I am meat._ _Raspberry stains. On her white dress._

Her hand reached for the sword on its on. She sunk it deep into the monster's head. The skull cracked open at its seams. It rolled down the shoulders and bounced on the ground, spilling its contents onto the ground. The creature swung left and right; the glow flashed in the skull's sockets and then fled, and the dismembered body collapsed into a pile with gentle rustling.

A piercing scream slashed through the silence.

"You killed her, you killed her, you killed her!!!"

Maeven fell before the pile, grabbing fragmented remains, pulling at rags that used to be her mother's clothing. She dragged them together, placing dead remnants close like a puzzle, trying to reconstruct everything that was lost to her in that moment. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she choked, she could not breathe. Verilia slowly stood up. The ringing in her head started to settle.

"M-mamae! Mama-ae!!"

The footsteps of her backup got louder. They were closing in on the cave. Still half-shocked, Verilia rushed to Maeven, gripped her by the shoulders and shook with all her might.

"Listen up, kid. Listen!" She yelled so loud the girl stopped crying. "Look into my eyes. Look closely. You _will_ remember me. You'll remember the bitch who killed your mamae. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't hers. _I did this,_ and you'll live with what I've done. You will survive. You will have revenge."

Maeven sobbed. She whispered a few words before standing up. The stomping came from around the corner. Verilia picked up her sword; every bit of her body wailed in protest, but she clenched her jaws and made herself take a battle stand.

"You've got to go. Run. Live until you can avenge her."

The girl started moving slowly like in a dream. Her last words still echoed in the stale, iron-reeking air.  _May they never catch your scent. May they never hear your steps. May you pass unnoticed into the Beyond._

"Run!!"

She started running. Finally. Her footsteps were loud against the stone at first, then they grew quiet, and then the darkness devoured her, leaving Verilia alone.

Ghilan'nain has two faces. One face is turned to love. She is Andruil's lover, Mother of the halla, protector of travelers and navigators. Another face is turned to rage. She is the Mother of Monsters, nature's avenger, craftswoman of dragons, giants and many other beings whose very names are feared as much as they themselves are. Every Dalish deity has a second face; Ghilan'nain was the youngest - and the most fearful. Her innocent nature made her anger unbound, confined only within her divine imagination.

"Hello, Vellie-girl."

He stood out of the shadows, cleaver in his hand, six foot figure unimaginably graceful and ominous at the same time. Figures too, he got so paranoid he wouldn't let her slip when stakes were that high.

"Screw you, ol' man. You're not gettin' this one."

"You were gonna quit anyhow. Fitting of you not to stab me in the back, at least." He turned to others. "Kill her. Then recapture the kid."

Verilia stood alone against three armed men. One of them was an ex-templar, two others - her former brothers in arms, people she used to eat with. Now they were eating her. The world was hungry. She refused to be its meat.

Marcelo can go screw himself. The whole world can go screw itself.

They ran her through and dumped her body into the river. They thought her dead, perhaps, or hoped she would surely drown. She probably would have. Even had she made it to the shore, the bleeding was too severe. She would die before the day's end.

She couldn't remember anything that happened afterwards. She only knew there was cold water, bleak light. Singing of frogs. Then, suddenly, something pushed and pulled, dragged her up - pain, hard rocks, body so stiff, cold air... A man in a black robe bent over her, his face a blurry spot. He was all soaked. _Why is he soaked if it's not raining?_

"You've lost a lot of blood," he told her. "Don't move, I'll try to stitch you up."

She nodded with comfort. Then blacked out.

When she woke up, the man was still there. Only there was no light. Just the campfire. She tried to sit up but felt dizzy and almost puked. Her savior turned and gave her a brief look.

"I wasn't sure if you'd make it," he said. "Glad you did. Nausea should pass in a few hours."

"Who... who are you?.."

Her own voice seemed unrecognizable, coarse and broken.

"I'm Anders. I'm with the Ravens."

The Ravens. She had never heard of such company. She knew not if they were allies or foes. More than that, she felt ashamed. Saved by a shem, of all things! But at least he was not going to kill her. Good enough.

"What do you want with me?" she asked, staring into the sky.

"Why would I want anything with you? You were dying. I came to help."

That was a concept too vast for her to comprehend. She tried to contemplate it, but her tired mind gave up before she could reach any conclusion.

"What's gonna happen to me?"

"How should I know? You're the one with a hole in your side. Go or stay, I don't care much."

A black bird circled above their heads. Anders stretched an arm, and the bird landed on it, delighted to see the master. Anders loosened a knot on its leg to get a small parchment scroll. What a weird shem. Albeit they're all crazy.

Verilia watched the stars through the haze and smoke. She had nothing to lose.


	8. with dawn

Hawke was sitting on a hilltop, contemplating the horizon. The golden dawn has almost claimed the sheer bleak-blue sky above his head, with only a handful of stars spilled across its vast. They formed a long blade - the Judex, as Anders explained - which tip has been pointing their way steadily for the past two days. They were almost there. From here, Hawke could see the valley up ahead, the fields and the farmlands, the specs of wooden huts and the slightly taller towers of a local chantry. Posed against the uprising sun, they appeared black. Hawke squinted, but the only movement he could see was a lonely horse grazing bitter branches of sagebrush near one of the farms. The night had been chilly, and its icy grasp has not yet worn off; Hawke shivered and adjusted his cloak. The wind was dry and fresh. It reminded him of the North. And of the sea.

He remembered the tall waves crushing into the docks of Gwaren, and the filthy, shifty waters licking the shores of Kirkwall. He remembered standing his ground on a ship for the first time, seasick, soaked, sharp grief for the loss of Carver still fresh in his chest, along with worry for mother and sister. Still, he found the strength to be amused by this marvel of human engineering. The smell of salt, the tall, creaky masts, the wideness before his eyes - all felt whimsical. The waste of this valley felt vaguely similar after a long travel through the forest. For the first time the sky was normal blue, not green and yellow, and that was enough for Hawke to feel uplifted. Nearing his forties, he has fully mastered the art of being easily distracted.

A light sound came from behind. Anders sat down beside him. He carried a comb and a small wineskin.  _The dream just got a lot more pleasant._ Hawke noticed a few tears on Anders' robe. Dark underlay lined his eyes. He's been having nightmares lately; that's not a good thing. He had people who cared for him. That is a good thing.

"Hey." Hawke leaned in to kiss Anders on a cheek. Mage's pale cheekbones flushed pink; blooming rays of sun turned his flaxen hair into liquid gold. His dark-blue robe was sewn with light threads, like the sky is sewn with threads of starlight. Hawke paused to admire the view. The dawn can wait.

"Hey." Anders ran his fingertips down Hawke's chin. Nothing but a mundane greeting, but Hawke awaits it eagerly every day. Like a boy waiting for the bakery to open.

Thus was established silence in which Anders combed his hair, focused on the task as if there was nothing more important in the world. Hawke leaned back and watched the sun. The air tasted sour on his chapped lips. He licked them nervously. Even in this peaceful moment, Anders appeared distraught. His thin lips have tightened into a line, deep scowl breaking his face into uneven, sharp-edged shapes. Hawke half-waited for him to say something, but the mage remained quiet. He has been that way for the past two days, and Hawke found himself missing his laughter. The dawn began to warm up his hands and the tip of his nose; he focused on sunbathing rather than trying to fill the awkward silence.

"How is our little friend doing?" he finally asked. Maeven now held permanent residence in Verilia's tent, crawling out only when they were about to move on. Safe for an amicable bond between her and Anders, she kept polite yet unfriendly. Hawke could smell the two shared a secret, but he couldn't sniff out which. With his help, Anders has repurposed one of his robes into a sturdy, if not too fashionable clothing, though its sleeves were still too long for the girl, so she kept rolling them up.

"Verilia says the girl weeps in her sleep. Then she wakes up and can't recall anything." Anders grinned miserably, withholding the thought that likely flickered in both of their minds: _Wish I could do the same_. "She's tough. Clever, too. Has a nick for natural sciences. I'm not sure if she reads..."

This respectful, albeit short explanation was all Hawke would get out of him. The silence prevailed, sending a disgusting shiver down his spine. He hated awkwardness. Social caution was not among his habits; things ought to be simple - or not be at all.

"I made a decision," Anders stated, just as Hawke was coming up with another topic for conversation. Not that it was surprising: Anders came up with so many decisions every day Hawke could hardly keep up. This seemed serious, however, and he didn't like the sound of it. He thumbed the stump of his ring finger, as he did when someone asked him to take on a responsibility.

"After this is done, I..." Anders put the comb down. He bit on his lower lip, gathering words--or the courage to speak. Hawke couldn't help but notice the soft glow of sunlight in his amber eyes. Beautiful.

"I need to get to Weisshaupt. I need to return to the Grey Wardens."

The realization knocked onto Hawke's head like a big lump of cotton. He felt its thickness clumping in his ears and mouth. The wind stung his lips as he slowly formed all emotions into one useless question. He felt like he had skipped a few weeks' worth of thinking.

"You need... what? Why?"

"We both know why." Anders' tone was tender like a kiss. It made Hawke wish the silence was back. "That's why we were running. We knew there won't be a happily ever after. Not with what I've done. Not with what you've been through."

The words of denial died on Hawke's lips as he pulled away, dodging Anders' palm. Thin fingers grasped the air where his cheek used to be; he could hear the sigh Anders let out through the clenched teeth.

Not the decision itself was upsetting--it was the way Anders presented it. His plan was not up to debate, it was a statement Hawke was expected to deal with. It felt like backstabbing. It brought a sense of helplessness, like someone had already written down both of their destinies and all they did was playing their roles. Hawke stared into the valley without looking at anything in particular. Nothing in the scenery felt peaceful anymore.

"We're not normal, Hawke," Anders offered, as if that was supposed to make things better. "We'll never be. The Hero of Ferelden was looking for the cure... When I reach them, I'm going to ask if she's been successful. If not... I'll submit myself to the Calling. Make up for the pain I'd brought."

Hawke's jaw tightened. Though utterly frustrated, he defined the situation could still be salvaged.

"I'm going with you. I've been to Weisshaupt, I'll help."

"That's not the best idea," Anders replied patiently like he was talking to a child. "It's not your burden. You've already given up so much, love. I'd hate to see you suffer for my sake... again."

There was easily a thousand reasons this was a bad explanation, but something in Anders' tone told Hawke objecting would not affect his judgement. Every decision, no matter how insane, had a cause - a heart beating beneath the floor, a secret kept under the gentle words. Some tragic mystery, no doubt. Hawke hated mysteries. Mysteries made things complicated. Mysteries put Anders in a dark and lonely place, somewhere Hawke could not follow. All he wished is for Anders not to be alone in that dark place. Is that really too much to ask?

He clutched his temples in attempt to settle rushing thoughts. His own voice seemed distant.

"Bullshit."

Anders raised a brow.

"Excuse me?"

"That's bullshit. This isn't about suffering, it's about trust - and you've been short on it since the day we met!"

Hawke could barely contain his anger. Words spattered out like sharp daggers; he felt the chill of night vaporizing from his bones. Hot indignation took its place. No one ought to tell him he _isn't ready_   for something. No one tells him that dark places are off-limits.

"No matter how hard I'm trying, there is always one more secret you won't share. You did that with the Underground, with the Chantry, and then--"

"Is that what you're worked up about? You haven't forgiven me?"

Anders' expression was more amused than frightened. He watched Hawke's reaction with a gaze of a surgeon poking at a malignant tumor. Careful, attentive bastard. Hawke made an effort to remain still.

"You're not listening. I wasn't pissed because you blew up the Chantry, I was pissed because you lied to me. And I had to make hard decisions on my own because you were too busy being an asshole!"

He paused to take a sharp breath. Anders was looking at him as if Hawke has physically hurt him. Hawke invoked a few Fereldan profanities and decided to take a kinder route.

"I know it's hard for you to trust others. But I've been working my ass off trying to prove my loyalty, and it offends me that you don't see it!"

He stood up. The bottom of his cloak was wet; it chilled his knees. He adjusted the leather belt that held his daggers, then turned towards the camp. He could see Verilia's flaming hair near the firepit. A child's voice rang above the rain-soaked leather tents.

As he started to walk, he heard the rustle of Anders' robe from behind. A slimy lump blocked his throat. Anders called him - many words pressed into one name.

"Garrett, I--"

_No. This is ridiculous._

"We'll speak when you're ready to ask for my help," he replied without looking back.

They were out of food. Verilia went off to try hunting, but she returned with empty hands. Hawke boiled rainwater to substitute their breakfast. He wasn't worried: They were fortunate to end up so close to the village just as their supplies came to an end. However, the lack of provisions took a toll on their young crewmate. Maeven winced when Hawke passed her a cup of herbal tea; she was hungry and no amount of tea would remedy that. Hawke tried some of Varric's old jokes to cheer her up but achieved nothing short of a smile. Maeven slouched and shifted closer to Anders, nudging him with an elbow.

"Anders, I'm hungry," she complained.

He shrugged, though his glance expressed compassion.

"What do you expect me to do? Conjure up a pheasant out of thin air?"

"Can't you?"

"That's not how magic works."

After finishing the tea, they packed their tents and bags. Hawke picked Maeven up and seated her on his shoulders. She grabbed his hair in fists like reins for a horse; her feet dangled at his chest.

The last trees ended when they began to descend into the valley, and the thick carpet of moss and dry canopy was replaced with low-growing shrubs. The road that led into the village, when they discovered it, turned out to be a damp mess of mud and puddles - it would be a good while before the sun would seep through the shadows of the hills and stiffen the clay. The Hinterlands were full of such valleys, hidden from all prying eyes. Many years ago, an army could hide here and move unnoticed in sheer numbers. Hawke enjoyed the tales of old, especially the ones involving Fereldan resistance during the Orlesian occupation. The image of a warrior queen riding her stallion among the hills of his motherland dazzled him. Mother told him that story at least a hundred times.

When the Empire fell, the Hinterlands became a place for refugees to settle down, building anew what Orlais had destroyed. People brought up their children on former battlefields, where their parents, brothers and sisters lay down their heads. Where old bones were buried, new ones walked.

The village was poor. One could notice it by the way the huts were built, hastily and close together, as if the owners were used to being cramped up like fish in a barrel. The roofs were layered with same clay which made up the road, and through some of them the grass sprung up. Nobody wanted to live here. Hawke grimaced, studying the scenery. It did not add to the vivid pictures in his imagination.

As they walked, a handful of villagers glanced suspiciously at the newcomers. Hawke knew that kind of people - he grew up among them. Just as the people of Lothering, these men and women worked their own land and minded their own business, far away from conflicts of any kind. They did not take kindly to strangers, did not travel much, and only respected their leader and their priest.

Anders waved for Hawke not to stop, following past the heart of the village and into the fields again, where few farms were arranged. They looked more presentable; some even had multiple buildings grouped together - a barn, a stable. Kennels, perhaps. It could be a land of a bann or a residence for a merchant - only what would they want with this uninviting place?

They walked for quite a while. Maeven seemed to have drifted off. A few times Hawke had to catch her before she'd slip down his back and fall. Verilia silently discussed something with Anders; Hawke heard the words 'wardens' and 'master'. He tried not to pay attention. Tried to focus on the compound they were nearing: A well-made house with sheaths painted green, surrounded by a stone fence not too high above Hawke's waist. There was a second building slightly behind the main one, and as soon as the smell coming from it hit Hawke's nostrils, he knew it really was a kennel. He squinted, trying to spot the owner of these premises somewhere out in the fields.

Had he not spent so much time inspecting the farm, he wouldn't have spotted a man who was sitting on the eave of the house. He was dressed in fine leathers, the kind that Fereldan noblemen would pick for hunting. His dark-brown curls cascaded down the shoulders - an elegant frame for an ivory-colored face. He was holding a bow, and the arrow was trained right on Hawke's chest.

"Take one more step, and you're all dead!" the stranger shouted, not lowering the bow. His speech placed him somewhere around Free Marches - where precisely, Hawke was uncertain.

He obeyed. He was not going to risk a child's life to take the man down. Verilia growled and pulled on the grip of her sword. Anders, however, seemed neither frightened nor surprised. Leaning on his staff, he raised a hand as if to greet an old friend.

"I sure hope you won't shoot an apostate, ser Rodrick!" he shouted back.

The man put down his bow and climbed down the wall with agility unusual for someone of his physique. He approached the travelers on light foot, wide smile shining through his beard. His eyes were piercing-blue and round. Hawke wouldn't call him handsome, but his energy and charm made attractive even his flaws.

"Anders? Andraste's blood, is that really you?" He gripped Anders' hand and pulled him into a brutal embrace, still smiling. "So good to see you!"

"Enough, enough..." Struggling to move under the crushing hug, Anders patted the man's shoulder. "It's been a while, my friend. I'm pleased to see you alive, under these circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"We were attacked," Hawke interjected, tired of being left out as a bystander. "By the way, hi, I'm Hawke."

" _The_ Hawke?"

"Yes. _The_ Hawke."

Rodrick's eyes narrowed as he scanned Hawke's face. He still would not let go of Anders, though his grip has loosened enough to let the mage draw breath. Hawke deemed this perpetual contact unnecessary and decided he didn't like the stranger one bit. A pause that hung between them rang with tension.

Anders hasted to defuse the situation. He pointed at Verilia in attempt to draw Rodrick's attention. "She's with us as well. One of the Ravens, just like you."

Rodrick gave her a quick nod, as if they were acquainted already. Verilia only hummed with suspicion. No doubt, she was slow to trust a shem. But Rodrick turned away like he hasn't noticed anything.

They were guided to the house and invited in, as dictated by the rules of Fereldan etiquette. The first thing Hawke noticed upon entrance was a massive writing desk in the center of the room, positioned in such a way so that daylight would stay on it for the longest period of time. There was also a bench by the fireplace, draped in rich red fabric and decorated with embroidered cushions. Otherwise, the room was almost empty - evidently, ser Rodrick preferred practicality to luxuries. The quality of furniture, however, also pointed to his wealth. Not bothered to keep up appearances, but well-sustained for sure. A nobleman? A knight? That explains the title.

The building was only one-storey tall, with two rooms. There was a ladder that led up to the attic. Hawke thought he'd heard light footsteps above his head before Rodrick broke the silence, inviting them to sit down. Hawke accepted the invitation but seated Maeven on his lap for safety. Verilia stopped in the darkest corner of the room; from that spot she could see everyone and everything, and the walls behind her back brought her visible comfort. Their host leaned against the windowsill, his bear-like figure blocking most of the sunlight.

"So." He crossed his arms, now all business. "Whom did you piss off this time?"

"Actually, we don't know. A loyalist mage came to our home. He was... well, I'm sure you can imagine."

Anders made a vague gesture. Rodrick nodded. He could. Many loyalists shared their late guest's sentiment regarding the rebellion, although none made quite the argument he did. Though not as relevant as before, their views remained an issue even after the Circles fell. Open conflict, however, was not their style - they favored propaganda and courtroom politics.

"He's the one you wrote a recommendation for."

"The apprentice?" Rodrick chuckled with amusement. Hawke understood his skepsis: The poor fellow didn't look like he could hurt a bat, Maker rest his soul.

"That's why I came to you first," Anders continued. "You were supposed to point him our way, right? Have you told him anything that--"

"I understand the suspicion, Anders, but I'm no fool," Rodrick interrupted in a stern voice, "and I'm no traitor."

Hawke watched both of them very carefully and concluded that the knight was telling the truth. His manners were imbued with that special kind of dedication which every Raven showed toward their Master: The kind that raised armies and made them go through Void and fire at his word. Then again, one of them turned out to be a murderous lunatic, so...

"Of course. I'm sorry." Anders bowed lightly, then stood up and made his way to the desk. His fingers brushed the sturdy tabletop as he studied stacks of letters on it. "You kept his records, right? The accord of our dealings may provide an insight in what he'd been up to before he died. May I see them?"

"Sure." Rodrick straightened up and marched through the room - with too fierce an eagerness, in Hawke's opinion. He flipped through a pile of parchments and dug up a leather-bound book, half-filled with columns of scribbles, sketches, and ink stains. Anders ran through the pages, frowning, finger following the columns and lifting up again, until he found the set of records he was interested in. His sharp features appeared more birdish, as usual in the moments of trouble. He remained silent long enough for Hawke to start worrying, and for Verilia to start tapping her foot. Only Maeven stayed calm, staring out of the window with a dreamy look. Adult business were of no value to her; she'd much rather play in the fields.

Hawke just opened his mouth to ask what in Andraste's name is going on, but the noise coming from the attic and a gentle voice interrupted him.

"Are the guests staying for supper, Rodrick?"

Hawke froze. So did everyone else, except Anders who continued his inquiry as if nothing happened. But something _did_  happen. Actually, it was astonishing for Anders not to be touched by it. Because Hawke recognized that level tone, that regular manner of speech without a single change of volume or intonation. There was no playful adoration, no surprise in it. Nothing at all. No sane man would speak that way.

The one asking did not hesitate to reveal himself. He descended from the attic, his stature straight and his gaze locked onto Rodrick, with no shed of curiosity toward the newcomers.

He was of fine family, as suggested by his aristocratic figure and flawless skin. He was dressed in a robe of rich make, with silver threads showing through silken lining. His short fuzzy locks were the same dark-brown color as Rodrick's, and his eyes had the same shape. Only they were void of feeling, misty. They did not study, did not challenge anyone. They just looked. Every muscle of his face was relaxed, as it happens when one is asleep. And as a final touch to support Hawke's guess, the only mark he bore on his fair, smooth face was a red brand in the center of the forehead. The sign of Tranquility.

"They are, Kellar. Thank you."

Kellar nodded and proceeded to disappear into another room. Nobody said a word. Hawke rocked back and forth, uneasy in this sensitive silence he didn't know how to navigate through.

"Nice mage you have there," he blurted, only to instantly regret it. Sometimes lack of social eloquence played harsh tricks on him. 

Rodrick bowed his head, listening to the sounds behind the door. It only now occurred to Hawke that the man wasn't young, judging by the creases and wrinkles that covered his face. Each told a separate tale, entangled into a net that made him look greatly burdened and tired far beyond normal for his age. He didn't reply, but much could have been derived from the way his tone softened when he spoke to the Tranquil, the similarities between the two, from his own humble clothing that didn't match his sibling's refined appearance. Hawke knew all that, and his heart ached for the man despite the lack of amiability. Rodrick reminded him of a wistful giant from mother's bedtime tales.

Anders kept perusing Rodrick's records until noon. Often he would place various sheets close to each other, comparing and double-checking their contents, and then rub his forehead in deep thought. Verilia stayed with him, unwilling to part Master's company. Hawke submitted to Maeven's will and let himself be dragged out of the house and into the kennels - with Rodrick's permission, of course. The girl sprinted several yards ahead of him, the sleeves of her unfitting gown fluttering in the wind. She reached the heavy door first and pushed the latch with all her might. To Hawke's surprise, the latch slid open, and she disappeared inside the building. As Hawke approached, he heard happy barking and an echo of laughter. He wondered if Maeven had ever seen a dog before: Judging by the cries of wonder, she had not. The kennels were spacious, with sturdy walls protecting the inside from the elements, and a foot of hay covering the ground. Small windows underneath the roof spilled sunlight around the building, giving the hounds sunbaths throughout the day. Everything was clean and the dogs looked healthy, their bright intelligent eyes following Maeven as she walked from one cage to another. Hawke greeted each of them with a nod of approval. Clearly, ser Rodrick spared no expense looking after his charges. Such kind of appreciation is scarce outside Ferelden; all the more peculiar that a marcher would show it.

When Kellar popped up at the doorstep and announced the supper was ready, Hawke began to worry that Maeven would have to be dragged out of the kennels by force. She seemed to have found more peace in the company of mabari than she did in the company of men; color got high in her cheeks, and she chattered non-stop while scratching behind the dogs' ears and under their chins. In return, they behaved gently about her - Hawke could barely recall any time he'd seen a mabari being so patient with a child. They were wardogs, after all. Several minutes of persuasion later, Maeven tearily parted with her new friends and agreed to join Hawke on the way back. Her fingers had a distinct smell of canine fur.

They ate in silence, all too occupied to sustain a polite conversation. Hawke was happy to eat behind a table for once; he finally knew where to put his elbows. Anders put a spoon down to mark something in a scroll on his lap. His scowl deepened and now seemed rather weary.

"This makes no sense," he declared, shoving the scroll onto the floor with annoyance. Hawke bent over, scooped up the scroll and stared at the list of names on it.

It appeared their deceased guest (whose name Anders highlighted with red ink) was a smuggler for Ravens; he dealt in forbidden artifacts stolen from the Chantry. It was not unusual: Aside from aiding the mages' cause, the Ravens strove to preserve the intellectual property of the Circles, salvaging libraries and repositories across Thedas. Many precious tomes were forever lost in the blaze of war; some were returned to the College; rare cases were kept within the organization, and even Hawke couldn't say where.

Dated two years before he showed up in their home, the apostate's task was to retrieve something from a half-ruined monastery in Highever. It was a trap, and most of his associates perished at the templars' hands. Except one.

"Eryien Lavellan..." Hawke tapped the scroll, trying to concentrate. "Why do I know that name?"

"He's Dalish," Anders mumbled through a good pint of ale he filled his mouth with. "'Member that clan we stumbled upon near Ostwick? One of 'em has agreed to join us. I recruited him personally."

"So there's our suspect. Why doesn't it make sense?"

"Because--" Anders swallowed hard and slammed his cup on the tabletop- "he's been dead for the past six months! Went on a routine patrol, fell into a cave. Broke his neck in an instant."

"Hilarious." Hawke put the scroll down. Something definitely rubbed him wrong about this ordeal. "Did you find the body? Maybe he, I don't know, got up and left while you weren't looking."

"At this point, I consider that entirely possible."

After they finished eating, Rodrick showed them their quarters. It was a tidy room with a lot of light, two beds, and a door that led into the backyard. In case if they needed to sneak out unnoticed, it was perfect. The host himself has resigned to the attic, again showing more care for others than himself. Kellar quietly cleaned the table, washed the dishes, swept the floor and prepared clean sheets for the guests. He did not express any sign of interest in them, like a mechanism which only purpose was to spin the gears, unaffected by weather and time. Hawke thanked him for the service; Kellar paid it no mind. After he left, their only goal was to wait. Anders said he needed more time to ponder on their next destination. Searching for the Dalish seemed a worthless task; they agreed to make it further north, backtracking the apostate's movements. Best to set out with dawn - they would cover more ground that way.

Hawke spent the rest of the day rearranging his belongings. There was little to do in the house; he tried talking to Kellar but deemed the Tranquil's attitude too unenticing. He took out his blades, shined them, then sheathed them again. Maeven left to play with the dogs. Verilia watched Hawke for a while before bursting into a series of comments on his fencing technique. Bored and thoroughly offended, he called for a duel, and the two spent a good hour sweating in a field, steel clanging on steel, heavy ragged breaths scratching their throats. They didn't notice when Rodrick walked out to watch them. Laughing, he called a draw before they could seriously wound each other - they would sorely regret it tomorrow. Beads of sweat glistened on Verilia's bronze skin; Hawke's hair became matted with blood and dirt. The sun crawled lazily across the sky.

As the dusk finally came, they were granted with a wooden bath and enough warm water to clean the four of them. Bathing seemed a luxury after long days of having to share a single piece of soap; Hawke made sure it would count, taking time to wash his hair and beard. Warm, foamy water ran down his back, caressed his shoulders; the smell of soap was tender on his fingers. He'd spend an entire night splashing, had Verilia not kicked him out.

"The kid's got at least an inch of dirt on her," she complained, helping Maeven with her robes. "It's ridiculous. That Lady of hers needs a punch in the face."

Hawke admitted he'd gladly watch Verilia punch a spirit. He would watch her punch an entire army of spirits, for that matter, and be glad he's not the one on receiving end of her mercy. His muscles still felt sore after the fight, and every bit of him ached, though pride did not allow him to whine about it.

He kept at safe distance from Anders throughout the day. The mage has seemingly forgotten their dispute; he acted normal, preoccupied with his plans. And only someone who knew him as well as Hawke did could notice a trail of solemnity behind that mask. He was greatly troubled, and though Hawke sympathized with his struggle, he chose not to interfere. One has to learn someday, after all.

He only noticed after they were in bed that Kellar brought fresh lavender to their room. Lavender did not grow in Ferelden; where'd he found it? And why, lacking the sense of aesthetic value, would he place these tender violet flowers in a clay vase at the window? Perhaps it was a habit of his, something from the days long before his head was branded with a red sun. Perhaps he knew it would be pleasing for the guests, even if he could not conceive of what pleasure means. Hawke breathed in deep; the aroma spread through the room like a growing plant, weaving around the bed, tangling within Hawke's hair.

 

He drifted off. Somewhere with no dark places. Somewhere Anders did not keep secrets and was not in danger.

It was long before dawn when his eyes opened wide, staring into the dark. He held his breath, overcome with a feeling that someone was watching him. He was not scared. But every thought turned to the night. Every sound gained significance. Same way a halla stares into the woods, certain a wolf is present behind them.

Someone was in the room. Someone was watching.

He began to turn slowly, trying to scan the room without rising. A shadow in the corner moved. Only an inch or so. But it was enough. Hawke started and jumped out of the bed. The shadow flinched, and something cold sliced the air near Hawke's cheek. He rolled away, thumbing the floor; before another blow slashed his throat, his hand found a weapon. He used it without thinking, trained body a perfect machine bred for killing. The dagger flipped and sunk into the body with a moist _chomp!_

Hawke took a moment to catch a breath. He watched the stranger's legs jerk, kicking the wall with a dull sound; it struck him that the assassin wasn't wearing any footwear. The man's hood slid back, and Hawke caught a glimpse of yellow cat-like eyes. An elf. Of course.

Only then did he realize no one was asleep anymore. Anders stood near the bed, gripping his staff so tightly his knuckles turned white; Verilia watched them both, one palm covering Maeven's mouth. Although the girl wasn't really looking like she was about to scream; judging by her gaze, she was rather riveted.

The door slammed open. Rodrick stood on the doorstep, short sword in one hand and a shapeless sack in the other. Hawke inspected the sack closely and concluded it was a body.

"What in the Void is going on?!" the knight roared, throwing the body on the floor like it was a bag of potatoes. Hawke stood up and limped toward the nailed assassin. He pulled on the dagger, and after some effort the weapon slid out of the elf's chest.

"Great question. No idea," he announced, wiping the blade.

"Look outside," Verilia whispered.

They looked out the window. Hawke whistled.

The fields were crawling with shadows. Each dressed in a cloak and armed with a dagger or a bow, they crouched among the grass, almost invisible--and absolutely soundless. Their eyes caught reflections of rare moonlight, and that was the only way to tell them apart. They paused and moved again; the commanders gave silent orders in elven language. Hawke started counting and lost at twenty. That was no assassination team. That was a small army.

"Shit," Anders hissed. Hawke nodded, unable to come up with a more fitting comment. The amount of questions was so enormous he was not even sure where to begin: Where did the elves come from? How did they find them? What was their quarrel? And why _elves_ , damn it?!

Rodrick assessed the situation quickly. He tossed Anders his robes, pointed at Hawke's clothing; then he marched to a large chest in the corner and threw the lid open.

"You," he pointed at Verilia, "help me with this."

He took out a suit of armor, dusted it off and began pulling on the breastplate right over the shirt. Verilia rushed to help him with buckles. The armor looked heavy, but Rodrick wore it like a summer dress, his iron muscles bulging up under metal plates. Hawke gave him a quick glance, and a small detail caught his eye. He cocked his head, trying to make out an emblem that decorated the suit.

It was a flaming blade. The symbol was half-erased, scratched and covered in dust, but it was still visible. Even at this urgent moment, a spark of animosity flared in the back of Hawke's mind. He stopped putting on his boots.

"Wait! So you were--"

"It used to be Knight-Lieutenant Rodrick, many years ago," said the knight dryly. "I enlisted when Kellar showed signs of magic. Figured I'd keep him safe. And look where it got us."

He choked on a bitter laughter, and his gaze flickered with suppressed pain. Hawke nodded. It explained much; why Anders called him _ser_ , why he was humble in expressing his needs, why tenderness bordered with shame when he spoke about his brother.

They had no time to pack. The elves closed in on the house so quickly there was barely any time to escape. Hawke growled, pulling on his half-empty backpack; the flight was going to be rough. Maeven squeezed Anders' hand and would not let go. Her eyes were locked on the body that was still lying on the floor.

Rodrick's face was grave and pale like marble. He stood motionless for a moment, thinking. Then his gaze turned to steel. He shoved Hawke and Anders towards the back door.

"Run," he ordered. It was a tone of a warrior commanding his troops. "I'll hold them off. Get out of here."

"Are you insane?!" Anders protested, heels of his boots scratching the floorboards. "I'm not leaving you behind! That's suicide!"

"If we all run, they'll give chase." Rodrick nudged him impatiently. "I'll buy you some time. Get out. Now."

His transformation was astonishing. Under pressure, he was unhesitating, unyielding. He did not take a refusal. He did not ask permission. He was a mountain in the enemy's way, and a single sight of that gave Hawke a strange assurance that they would make it out alive. Indeed, Rodrick must have been a horrifying figure back in his glory days. Anders was still hesitant to leave him alone, but even he seemed to have sensed that change, because he stopped resisting and pulled Maeven towards the door.

"I'm stayin' too."

Verilia lifted her sword. She showed no sign of hesitation, unbound, black-eyed menace in every step. Before Hawke realized _what_ she was about to do, he knew it would be pointless to object. She came with them to protect the Master. She would gladly die before anyone touches him.

"Vel, please--" Anders' voice quavered, broken pleas filling up the pauses. Verilia smiled.

"I owe you twice, Master. Take care of the kid."

Hawke sobbed, much to his own surprise. He felt angry tears stinging his eyes. This didn't seem real. But he was trained to sustain worse, so as his mind rejected reality, his body was making decisions on its own. He took Rodrick's hand and shook it stiffly. Then he hugged Verilia, putting as much force into his embrace as he could, but giving no clue of fear or remorse. Last thing they need right now is for him to regret their sacrifice. He will honor them. He will keep their Master safe. Anders did the same, though much gentler. These were not only his people, his Ravens. They were his friends.

They were already at the door when Anders turned one last time.

"What about Kellar?" he asked. "We can't just--"

"I will stay as well."

Kellar stepped into the room, unemotional as always. He's changed his robe to a more practical one, with short sleeves and soft leather boots. Rodrick slammed the chest closed and gave his brother a firm stare.

"No. You won't."

"Yes. I will."

For a moment Hawke thought Rodrick would drag the Tranquil out and shut the door. But the knight only sighed; his features thinned out, each wrinkle a black shadow netting across his face.

"Anders," he said, each word heavier than another, "you better live through this, you son of a bitch."

Anders' chin quivered, but he uttered no word in response. He took Hawke's hand, seeking support in only way he knew; and despite their disagreements, Hawke gave him a reassuring pat. Now was not the time for petty grudges. He knew that.

The enemy's steps echoed behind the door. Maeven stepped back, hiding behind the folds of Anders' robe. He pulled her close. Something rustled above their heads, on the roof. The entire house was full of noises.

Rodrick opened the door, and they ran.

Hawke kept his eyes on the black line of the forest far ahead, his hand holding Anders' in an iron grasp. Once or twice a shadowy figure attempted to cross their path; one fell to Anders' spell, another ventured close to Hawke, and he plunged his fist into its jaw. The elf groaned and flew back several feet. Hawke decided not to wait until they gather their bearings and lunged toward the woods at double speed. In the darkness of a cloudy night he could see no farther than his nose; black spots danced before him, and he nearly fell once, tripping over a root. Anders' heavy breathing came from behind. Maeven ran silently, but Hawke could see she was sweating. Cold wind stung like a needle on his neck and ears. Anders pulled him back, asking to stop for a moment, but Hawke yanked him forward. There was no way he'd let Anders die here. Not now, not when they had so much to talk about. Not after what the ones left behind have sacrificed.

For how long they kept running, he didn't know. He only noticed the change of landscape when the darkness began to fade, replaced by a soft twilight of another dawn. There was no more long grass tangling about his feet; dry canopy and mossy boulders had replaced it quite a while ago. He realized there was no breath left in him - literally, he could not inhale, since his muscles gave up on breathing as much as on anything else. Exhausted, without a single thought in his mind, he sank onto his knees. The cooling touch of still air was a welcome one on his burning skin.

Anders leaned on his shoulder, deep shaking breaths escaping his chest with visible effort. He was carrying Maeven in his arms. Hawke didn't remember stopping so he could pick her up. She was so tired she fell asleep even while they kept running. He felt half-jealous about it. The kid could probably fall asleep in the midst of battle.

He turned around to see the path behind them, but found nothing short of trees and bushes and stones. Somewhere far away, twilight was painted with crimson light. It flopped like a red scarf, and Hawke knew it was a flame.

He felt numb. Empty. He only wanted to close his eyes and not open them again. He wrapped his arms around Anders' edgy shape - and fell back first into the moss.

 

***

Kellar was sitting on the stairs, contemplating the horizon.

He was neither afraid nor saddened. He knew his death was about. Deep cuts striped his body, hands and legs; he was bleeding profusely, and it would not be long before the light would fade. He held a short sword he picked up somewhere in the house. The place where his brother hid him, cared for him and loved him. It was now naught but the rage of crimson inferno in the corner of his eye. He paid it no mind. He was fine with it burning down.

Rodrick leaned heavily on his shoulder, blood covering him head to toe, armor laced with cracks and fissures without a single spot left whole. He was bleeding, too. His living warmth brought Kellar a sense of comfort he had not known for a very long time. It was partly because of this warmth that Kellar was not afraid to die.

"You kicked ass, brother," Rodrick coughed out, each sound a crude imitation of human voice. Kellar nodded. The ground around them was covered in bodies. Some of them were still alive; scorched and gutted, they crawled toward the dawning light, last moments of their lives a delirious agony. Rodrick's dogs wandered amidst them, gnawing the living.

The short elven woman who helped was somewhere near, too. Kellar vaguely recalled her name, but mostly he thought of her eyes, cold and enigmatic and foreign. He wished he could see them now, see the riddles in their depths, the unquenchable flame of her soul. It was his only regret.

"I love you, Rodrick," he said quietly. Rodrick rubbed his shoulder.

"I know."

"The dawn... is beautiful."

"Yes. It is."


	9. I loved a man fine

Breathe in, breathe out. Still alive.

Hawke tried rising up and was greeted with warm weight on his chest. He peeked down. Maeven slept on top of him, her thin limbs tucked under the body. With sensation of her weight came the pain in his left side; he shifted and moaned through clenched teeth. The darkness around suggested he's been out for a while; how long, he could not say. Last thing he remembered was running, feverish thinking, the forest clearing abruptly as they crossed the hills on the west and walked into another valley. Hawke recalled a single farm, yellow light looming in the distance. The open skies, however, suggested they never reached it. Sprouts of barley swung above his head. A field, then. He relaxed and looked past the golden strings that arched around him like pillars of a temple. Up above, there were stars. Cold, comforting stars. A good sign. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Another strike of pain caused him to flinch. He rolled, and the child slid from his chest into the grass. Someone stroked his shoulder. He turned and saw Anders' raven-like profile notched over the nightly darkness. Hawke tried to move closer, but the pain crippled him in an awkward, twisted pose.

"Hush." The mage's palm pressed down on his shoulder, keeping him in place. "My healing needs time to work."

"What happened? Feels like I broke something."

"Nothing I couldn't fix."

The night was quiet. There was no rustling of crouching shadows, no husky voices brought by the gentle wind. Their shelter was gone; that's a bad thing. They were safe for now. That is a good thing. Hawke leaned back and stared upwards. The stars stared back. At least he thought they did - somehow it made him feel safer.

"So it's official, then," he noted after a long pause. "We're running from an angry elf... and all his angry elven friends. Just when I thought things couldn't get any crazier."

In reality, he's learnt not to suppose anything regarding craziness. Hell, with what he has bumped into in the streets of Kirkwall, anything was possible. Ancient artifacts? Sure, why not. Elven assassins? Seen them all. What's next, holy Andraste risen from the grave? Bring it on.

"That can't be right." Anders shook his head. "Eryien's dead. He must be."

"Our prime suspect is an elf; next thing we see is a bunch of elven assassins storming our door. Either he's still alive, or that was a heck of a coincidence."

Anders sighed, but said nothing. Maeven snored quietly, twisting Hawke's cloak in her fist. Her shoulders shook from the cold. Hawke scooped her into a hug before she could wake up. The kid has been through a lot lately, sleep would do her good.

As she warmed up in his hands, his thoughts turned to the events of last night. Particularly - to the way their enemy could find them. There was no way they have been following the group from the beginning - for that both Hawke and Verilia must have been blind and deaf. Nobody knew of their destination safe for Verilia... and she was dead. The villagers were aware of their presence, but picturing any of them in conspiracy with the Dalish was like picturing Divine Victoria in conspiracy with the Archdemon. Technically possible, but not probable.

Of clan Lavellan he knew very little. As little as of any other clan, in fact. The reclusive elves took extra effort ensuring no shemlen ever walks away with their secrets - except clan Sabrae. Not that they were much friendlier, but in honor of Hawke's deal with Asha'Bellanar they allowed him to roam free in their territory. He was one of few shems ever to see an aravel, or to witness the craft of elven weapons - ironwood knives and bows. Clan Lavellan did not grant him such honor. While Anders was speaking with the elders, Hawke hung out in the cold behind the aravels and begrudged the day he decided to join the Master of Ravens.

Aside from lack of hospitality, Lavellans were known for their ties to the Inquisition. They were the only clan to openly pledge support for Inquisitor's effort against Corypheus, vowing to help in any way they could. After the magister fell, the clan chose to uphold the allegiance, though they were not as enthusiastic about it. That decision must have costed them respect of other clans, no doubt; even if the Inquisitor herself was not human, the Inquisition stemmed from the Chantry and was entangled with its interests. And the Chantry wanted elves gone.

So what grudge could a Lavellan hold against the Ravens? Doubtfully he was the Inquisitor's invisible hand - Dalish are not known for doing others' dirty work. But equally doubtful would be that the timing of the attack was a coincidence. What, Eryien just happened to find Hawke and Anders precisely after the Exalted Council? What was he doing before that, drinking tea?

"You were right."

Hawke snapped out. Anders fell on his back. He rolled closer to Hawke, pressing the stems of barley into the mud. Faint scent of lavender mixed with stench of sweat and blood. Hawke noticed a note of tension in his tone, a knot of discomfort. He offered an outstretched arm for the mage to rest his head on.

"Of course I was," he shrugged. "What about?"

"Everything. I'm not--" Anders paused, biting on his lip. His quiet voice rubbed Hawke's ear like a patch of fur. "I tried to protect you. I've done many things in my life. Things I'm not proud of. Because I knew, if my plans go sideways, you'll be there to save me. If you weren't there for me every step of the way, I'd be dead many times over... And now I'm done watching you stick out your neck for my mistakes."

He paused again. He always talked same way he kissed: Either light and meaningless or desperate enough to make stone tear up. Bouncy, joking words springing from his mouth, silverite laughter, witty tongue - or choking clogs of meanings he could not utter, feelings he didn't know how to express. Of everything he wanted to say, he could only squeeze,

"I owe you too much, Hawke."

The stars glimpsed wistfully from his eyes. Hawke adjusted his pose so that the wound no longer bothered him. He let out a sigh of relief when the left side of his body went numb, soothed by Anders' healing touch. Soft shining of magic spilled blue reflexes around their lair.

"No. You don't." Hawke drew a few locks from the mage's forehead. Silken hair tickled the stump of his ring finger. "Remember that time the Arishok impaled me on a giant sword? You spent two weeks stitching me back together. Bodahn sent for a famous healer from Hightown, but you wouldn't let her touch me. Or that time we got roasted by a dragon? You kept sketching a warding glyph about us while being literally on fire!"

"I wasn't on fire," Anders protested, "my coat was. Besides, Isabela put it out almost immediately, so it wasn't a big deal."

He was flattered, though he'd never admit it. Hawke ignored his protests, planting a kiss in a corner of his mouth. The wound flared up with pain, but he deemed Anders' smile worthy of it.

"You were there when the Blight took Bethany from me," he continued. "You were there when mother died. You were there when I was so broken I couldn't speak or walk. You fed me when I refused to eat. You bandaged me when all I wished was to bleed. Every time I turn around, you're there, guarding my back. Every time I fall, you pull me up, dust me off, and move on like nothing happened. You never judge me, never ask for anything in return. Maybe keeping me alive is a pastime to you. To me, it's a gift of heavens. I'd burn entire Thedas before losing it."

Anders pressed his forehead against Hawke's shoulder, burying his face in the folds of leather and fur. He tried to speak but could only part lips to swallow the night air, sharp breaths leaving wet spots on Hawke's clothing and open skin. Those were breaths of a man too old to learn how to breathe freely.

"When we neared that artifact, I heard... things. Things I've forgotten about. It made me realize that my time is short... and that I can't hide from it anymore." His whispers barely penetrated the sturdy leather. "But I don't want to leave without you, Garrett. Help me... please."

That explained the rush. Hurts that he did not tell earlier. Hawke caressed Anders' head and watched the stars. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Do you still hear things?"

"No. But it won't be long now."

"Don't beat yourself up, Master of Ravens. I'll help you. Nothing can take you from me. Not Eryien, not the Blight, not even the Maker."

Anders raised Hawke's hand and kissed it as gently as he could.

They lay in silence, cuddled, and the child between them slept safely under watch of two most powerful people this side of the Frostbacks. In this silence, Hawke's mind turned to Verilia.

He couldn't quite give a name to what he felt towards her. Monstrous as it may seem, he was used to people being ready to sacrifice themselves so their Master might live another day. Anders had that effect on people. He ignited them, drove them. His fight was everyone's fight. At the same time he never forgot to respect even the lesser of servants. It might not liberate them from fear and pain, but at least they would die knowing the Master was grateful for their sacrifice, knowing their lives were valued, their voices mattered. It was more than many would get at the end of their lives. Perhaps there is comfort in altruism after all.

Verilia was not like them. Of all terms Hawke could describe her with, the last one would be 'altruistic'. She did not see Anders nor Hawke as living legends, all her hopes made flesh. She carried herself as an equal. She would not shy away from the praise, but it mattered little to her. She was loud. Unapologetic. Prone to every sort of sin the most pious mother could come up with. Hawke has never met another woman like her - perhaps because she was so much more than just a woman, or just an elf, or a Raven.

And now she was dead. And the world felt serene and somber. As if the night and the stars, the barley and the wind knew what her sacrifice meant. That smile at the end... was she smiling in her last moments, too? Was she afraid of death?.. _Take care of the kid_. Hawke squeezed Maeven, pressing her tighter to his chest. The girl mumbled, but did not wake up.

Should she find out one day what Verilia has done... Should she recall even a shred of it, there will be a hell of a lot to talk about. For now, it is best that she doesn't. 

"You know, when I fished her our of that river," Anders said, as if reading Hawke's thoughts, "she wouldn't draw breath. There wasn't much I could do. And then... she just refused to die. Refused to be destroyed. It's... it's strange to think she's gone. She wouldn't just give up like that."

He sobbed, but didn't say anything else. Hawke nodded. This short account became an epitaph on the mighty warrior's unmarked grave.

Perhaps she wouldn't want them to mourn. But they did. Lying in the barley, looking at the stars, they mourned. And an hour passed and then another, and the knot in Hawke's chest still would not unwind.

"Where are we going now?" he asked, in order to fill the emptiness that pulled heavy on his being. "We can't keep placing our agents in danger, and we can't stay on our original path. Damned assassins, how do they even know where we are?.."

"I have friends in low places, and you..." Anders tapped the tip of his nose, "you have friends in high places. The ones who might know where clan Lavellan is, and what their First to the Keeper is up to."

"What, you want to just pop up on Inquisitor's doorstep and ask her to please sell out her allies to the most wanted rebel in Thedas?"

"Wouldn't be my first choice, trust me."

"Oh I trust you alright. _She's_ the one who troubles me. Her morals are... questionable."

"Look who's talking. Don't worry. We'll be careful."

 

For the next few weeks, they traveled north.

It was a wearying journey through the pathways that grew rockier with every mile. Hawke figured their chances of avoiding the assassins would grow if they stirred clear of the woods and instead traveled along the roads, blending in with the merchants and adventurers. The Bannorn attracted both in excess; in mine-wrecked northern heights, however, there was little for them to see. As limes of South Reach and fruitful soils of the countryside got replaced by ore-heavy mountains of the Coastlands, the roads became emptier, and the scenery duller. Where the South of Ferelden took its toll with treacherous mists and unconquerable forests, the North dwelt upon serenity of peaks and chasms, all equally grey, with specs of red and black where ores burst from underground. Each path the travelers took would end with a stone wall or a cliff. More than a few times Hawke had to climb while carrying Maeven on his back. For all her resilience, the kid's downfall was the lack of shoes - she couldn't make a step without injuring her tender feet. Anders kept up alright. Having been a fugitive for most of his life, he's learnt not as much resilience as the fine art of non-complaining.

The benefit of the mountains was an eagle's view many miles around. Should any threat approach from ahead or behind, they would be able to spot it. Hawke spent first few nights in a nervous half-slumber, starting every several hours at a slightest screech. The lack of supplies wasn't particularly helpful. In haste, they only brought a little food and a single tent with them. Hawke's cloak began to show wear and tear after some rough spots in the mountains. Same situation prevailed in Anders' clothing as well. Maeven's long sleeves turned to rags and eventually had to be cut off. She was furious about it and protested violently until Anders threatened to turn the ribbons of ragged fabric into snakes. That did little to calm her down, though: _That's not how magic works, Anders!_  Apparently, she rather enjoyed having a pair of sleeves flopping in the wind behind her.

They crossed a few villages on the way. Hawke perused his pockets and fished out a pathetic excuse of a wage. Better than nothing. It bought them a night in a small inn and a pair of sturdy boots for Maeven. She immediately refused to wear them, saying they give her blisters; Anders resolved the issue by bandaging her feet and expressing an opinion that, if she wants to walk on sharp stones barefoot, that's her privilege as an uncivilized young lady. Nobody recognized them, even as they threw back their hoods and walked around the market square bareheaded. A comforting change to the years back when they had to avoid every single farm and hen house because everyone knew their faces. Still, Hawke considered it necessary to pout and complain about Varric's unimaginative writing that didn't even secure them a place in history. Anders chuckled and noted that Hawke's very appearance could secure a place in history, but the bards would be too frightened to describe it to the nobles.

Since the danger appeared to have passed, the travelers returned to their routines. Hawke practiced throwing daggers at nugs (he hit exactly one out of five hundred). Maeven kept hiding in the tent. Anders took on new responsibilities.

It was eating away on him but whether he admitted it or not, a young mage is a disaster waiting to happen. There is a reason people are afraid of magic, and that reason is not solely Chantry propaganda. Most mages started off their careers by setting something on fire or, Maker forbid, wounding their siblings. There was no hiding from it, though the danger was not nearly as great as some would believe.

Maeven was very young and hardly had any training whatsoever. Anders shook his head in desperation, rolled up his sleeves, and prepared to be magically transformed into a mentor figure.

"Alright, then. Let's start with something basic... have you any knowledge of magical systems? To put it simply, there are many schools of magical knowledge, distinguished by their--"

"I wanna see a dragon." Maeven waved her hands. Sparkles fountained from her fingertips. A nearby bush turned frozen, with a butterfly caught into icicle on one of its flowers. "Can you conjure a dragon? Can you shapeshift into one?"

"No. No dragons. And I can't shapeshift, it's a lost practice."

"I like the way she thinks!" Hawke yelled from across the clearing they were camping on.

"Not helpful, Hawke!"

Maeven proved a talented student. Undisciplined as one can be, but talented. She picked up knowledge in a chaotic but surprisingly effective way, and her practices were getting more successful by a day. Anders wondered at times if her talent was a consequence of possession or just a natural gift. A little of both, perhaps. The real problem was the amount of questions she asked. The kid had rather twisted imagination - and no understanding of etiquette. Anders considered the questions a good sign. The girl hasn't uttered three words in a row since they met, her enthusiasm a pleasant surprise. The more time he spent with her, the more it looked like there was something greater behind every question, a dormant force that dragged her forward. With age and proper tutelage, she might have become one of the most successful enchanters in history. Or was it simply his imagination, the unfulfilled wish of parentage that woke up when she asked him to take her hand?

No. Of course not. He was unsuitable for parenthood. He was not good enough to serve as an example, and more than that - he despised the very concept of procreation. He considered it a cruel joke to give birth in this bloodthirsty, unfair world. There is enough grief and not nearly enough kindness to go around; who would want to be born in such a place? _As ocean deep is misery of men_ _, and passed to each one ever and again._

So time went by. They kept walking. The month of Kingsway has ended and Harvestmere began. The weather was getting colder, and the rains came more often. Hawke worried. By his estimate, they would not reach Frostbacks in another two weeks. That meant scaling the mountains in the beginning of winter, fierce blizzards carpeting their path with feet and feet of snow. Given they are able not to get lost in the storm - how will they make it to Skyhold? And the child - how is she supposed to survive that kind of journey?

They were running out of time, and the future was looking grim.

Where Frostback Mountains enclose on a shore of the Waking Sea and Orlesian border stretches out into eastern territories, a town stands by the name of Jader. The grand fortress in its center was originally built to withstand front assaults during the Orlesian occupation, but in the end gave birth to a place where two warring nations make temporary peace. Technically Orlesian, Jader stands right on Fereldan border and represents an exotic mixture of both cultures. Its upper streets are refined alleys that stretch far and wide along the mansions. Each mansion has a garden, and though nothing grows well in cold Fereldan climate, Orlesian gardeners still manage to decorate the facades with violets, lotuses, and the blue freckles of forget-me-not. Arcs stem above the front doors, supported by pillars with extravagant ornaments. Each mansion also has a symbol on its doorstep - a lion statuette. Most of the mansions are summer residences of Orlesian noblemen, who tire of riches in Val-Royeaux and come here to experience the exotics of the 'barbaric East'. But, as everything in Imperial Court, that is merely a mask. The real cause of Jader's popularity is its secrets. Here, filthy truths of the Court change hands without the higher nobility's notice. From here, ships sail under no man's colors. Here, away from the Empress' earshot, someone is always willing to talk.

There is a saying: One comes to Jader with pockets full of gold, one leaves Jader with pockets full of lies.

Lower streets, closer to the docks, are devoted to peasants. The strong smells of fish and tar hit one like a hammer in the head, and it takes some time to get used to the incessant creaking of salt-infused wood, the cries of gulls and the persistent moist fog that reigns in the streets. It appears as if the soil itself had been soaked miles and miles deep, and the whole town now rests on a muddy bog. The cobbles are slippery all the time, and the bed sheets never fully dry. People who live here come from both Orlais and Ferelden - and strangely enough, they do not care much about either.

Following the establishment of the Inquisition, Jader saw growth, since both nations chose it as a middle point on their way to Skyhold. The pathway through the mountains quickly got itself a set of handy railings; with merged efforts of Inquisitor's scouts and locals, the road to the fortress stayed clear all year round. Hawke couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor bastards. Combating merciless winters and sea-brought winds was hazardous, exhausting work. One could hope the workers were being paid accordingly - alas, in most cases that was wishful thinking.

Hawke, Anders, and Maeven stayed the night here before attempting one of the craziest things in Hawke's lifetime.

The night was descending upon the roofs of Jader when they made it to the central square. Even their heavy cloaks were no help against the wailing wind, ashen-cold, full of moisture. The houses that looked out onto the shores were built with that wind in mind. They were sturdy and grim, and resembled little castles of their own. Even people's faces, as Hawke noticed, seemed to be carved out by this wind, their crude features similar to the cliffs upon which stood their city. He found it exhilarating, while Anders couldn't get rid of a feeling that the sky pressed on him. Half-drowned, half-washed, Jader looked much like Kirkwall. It only lacked the Gallows. And a qunari compound. 

Their last coin was spent long ago, so they cast about in attempt to find something decent enough for a shelter. The deep irony of the situation became obvious when Hawke pointed at the only building which windows loomed with dim light.

"Oh no," Ander protested. "No no no. That's--"

"We won't last outside," Hawke noted. Desperation aside, he could not hold a laughter. "Come on. I'm sure it's not that bad."

"I'll regret this."

Hawke burst out another laughter and marched towards Jader's Chantry.

It was a building made to last. Its massive oak doors locked on a bar so heavy it took five men to lift it. The walls rose up to unseen heights, dissolving into darkness under the great dome. Painted mosaics glistened on the windows - it must have been a wonderful sight on sunny days, when sunlight seeped through the pictures and made them come to life. Unlike Kirkwall's Chantry, this one had naught of rich decorum - no golden statues, no purpur draping on the walls. This was no home of the Maker but His fortress. The only source of light were the numerous candles lit at the altar. At this late hour the benches of the hall were empty. No sign of the priests, either. Solitude surrounded the travelers. It soaked into the bones, made one feel insignificant, unwanted. The air was filled with a thick aroma of myrtle and rose.

Hawke dusted off one of the benches and threw his backpack onto the seat. He stretched the blanket over the rest of the bench, and though it was full of holes, it made the unwelcoming ambiance of this place almost bearable. The three of them cuddled up tightly, trying to shield each other from the cold.

"At least it's not raining in here," Hawke offered, scrapping the last bits of bread from the bag and distributing them among the group.

"I'm sure the Maker won't overlook that flaw once he discovers we've defiled His home."

"We're not defiling, we're... decorating."

Anders snorted. He snapped his fingers, and a fleet of tiny fireballs spun around his head. They evinced warmth equaling that of a fireplace. Their little shelter now felt cozy, even if it were amidst the cold hall of a Chantry. Maeven wrapped Hawke's cloak around herself; he could hear her teeth clacking. Soon, though, she was warm enough and stopped shivering.

"I can't sleep in this place. It's creepy. Sing me a lullaby," she demanded, tagging at Anders' sleeve.

"Everyone knows I can't sing."

"You can," Hawke murmured, half-asleep. "You just do it poorly."

"And _you_ would know!"

Hawke, who couldn't carry a tune to save his life, shrugged with an upset expression.

"Sing that blasphemous one." He waved, trying to recall the lyrics. His tired mind could barely gather two words together, never mind a song. "About Andraste and her knight--how did it go?.. _A lass lived once in Fereldan lands, pretty as a painting--_ "

"Hawke, _no_."

"Alright, then the Rivaini one."

Maeven turned to Anders with live interest in her eyes.

"Oh, I heard about Rivain! There are ships for houses, and pirates, and whales!"

Anders sighed. There was no escape for him this time, it seemed. And it would be ironic to sing a pagan sailor's song in this solemn place. Let the Maker laugh for once. He scowls much too often.

"Very well."

He cleared his throat, and his voice rose up into the dark like a ribbon of smoke. Isabela taught him that song a long time ago, when the lot of them were just happy young people, sitting in The Hanged Man, playing Wicked Grace. She sang it with more passion; his own performance felt bleak in comparison. Notes broke and slipped on his tongue; music was never among his talents. Still, it brought comfort.

 _oh I loved a man fine_  
_he was noble and kind_  
_but of blood borne high_  
_he could never be mine_  
_so I took a ship fast_  
_and a crew that would last_  
_and I came for me love_  
_through the sea blue and vast_  
_cry did the rain_  
_on that grey and stormy day_  
_when I came for me love_  
_to take him to Rivain_  
_and I said,_  
  
_down with the kings_  
_down with the priests_  
_judge me by ye love_  
_or judge me by ye sins  
_  
_in the free lands of Rivain_  
_we've spent our old days_  
_with no nobles, no chants_  
_to keep us away_  
_and our hair grew grey_  
_on that golden day_  
_when me love kissed me last time_  
_on the shores of Rivain_  
_and he said,_  
  
_down with the kings_  
_down with the priests_  
_judge me by ye love_  
_or judge me by ye sins_

 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'As ocean deep is misery of men' is an allusion to a poem by P. Larkin 'This Be The Verse', which is devoted to domestic abuse as a vicious circle passed on through generations. I feel a deep connection to this poem and think it appropriate for Anders.


	10. invisible hand

Inquisitor Adaar was having a magnificent day.

Josephine watched her from across the great hall, wondering if time was right for interference. She could see the shadows thickening on Inquisitor's face, and felt the room getting stuffier and smaller with each second. Adaar's gigantic figure towered on the throne - a statue that made one aware of all their sins past and present. She cast about the crowd of nobles; her eyes slipped past their silken cloaks, rich jewelry and expensive shoes. She watched their hearts beat in tight pale chests, sweat dripping down their brows and smearing powdered cheeks. Caged birds with trimmed wings. They were mostly Orlesian and Fereldan nobility - it seemed that latest events caused quite the resonance. Some were diplomats. Josephine also spotted a man in long black robes ornamented with golden snakes, a common motive in Tevinter fashion. Heads bowed as Inquisitor's purple eyes scanned each face; no one dared to stare back. From the golden threads weaving around her horns to the boots of finest Antivan leather, from the bulky muscles to the heavy ceremonial coat, the Inquisitor was an image of power so overwhelming it could move walls and crush bones. The wrath of that power was fatal. Josephine knew its dangers better than anyone.

"No."

Adaar's lips barely moved. Her face remained still as a mask. Torchlight threw yellow shades on her stone-grey skin, adding to an impression of a golden idol. The man before her, whose confident posture matched naught the indecent redness of his face, shook his upthrust hands in rage.

"You cannot condone this heresy, Your Worship! I demand she be stripped of her rank and thrown out on the street where she belongs! Your Inquisition is supposed to serve the ideals of the Chantry, and as member of such--"

Adaar only had so much as to raise her palm; the cleric swallowed the last words as if they were physically shoved down his throat.

"The Inquisition serves Divine Victoria, _basra_. Your squabbles do not concern it."

She looked past him, making it evident how little his anger meant. But her knuckles got pale from the force with which she clenched her fist. Josephine eyed the cleric nervously. The storm was close. She began to doubt the outcome of this charade.

"The Divine was not part of our deal when I supported your claim three years ago," the man demanded. Some sighs and whispers rocked across the hall, but he chose to ignore them. "We have been loyal to your cause since the beginning - and now you're appointing an elf to watch over our chantry, teach our people? An elf as Revered Mother in Wycome! Was it not enough to have one in the city's Council?!"

"The Divine has appointed her." Adaar's eyes narrowed. "Unfortunate, I know. Be it my will, I would've celebrated her appointment with your head paraded through the city. Alas, my orders are clear. Keep your hands off her... or you will learn what my people do with traitors."

The man's face turned purple. He opened his mouth, thin colorless lips gasping like those of a fish.

"You dare!.."

_"Parshaara."_

Adaar waved dismissively and turned to Josephine. Her tone softened just enough - a secret under everyone's noses, nobody would spot the difference. Nobody but the two of them.

"Ambassador, show this _qalaba_ out of here. Ensure he does not bother me again."

Josephine bowed, letting out a sigh of relief. The show was over, happily without incident.

"With pleasure, my lady."

She could not wait to get this meeting over with. Even accompanying an enraged cleric to his chambers was appealing; Maker knows she could use some fresh air. Besides, there was a hundred more things that needed her - and Inquisitor's - attention, and she was determined to have it all finished by dusk so that her lady can have a good night's rest for once in a lifetime.

The man shrugged off her hand when she tried to guide him toward the exit. Josephine saw Adaar's jaw tighten. Most people found it intimidating. Ambassador wasn't most people. A warm breeze of pride caressed the back of her neck. Insolence towards her triggered Adaar's protective instincts.

The man grimaced, practically spitting under Inquisitor's feet.

"My collective will not overlook your threats. If you don't support our struggle, we'll find someone who does."

Adaar disregarded his words. Her face twitched a slightest bit, and she gave Josephine a small grin. Nobody seemed to notice. She then turned to the next visitor and forgot about the man's existence.

The cleric's chambers were located on the battlements and had a view on Skyhold's garden. Autumn has claimed its beauty, withered the flowers, and covered the ground with a silver cloak of frost. Seemingly a sign of respect, the true benefit of the chamber was a back door into the cellars - a door used by nobody but servants. As Josephine guided the man along the battlements, she noticed a slim shadow lurking down below. The final move of their little game was on.

The cleric did not thank her for showing him to his quarters. He muttered a few words and slammed the door in front of her - an insult that would surely get him hanged under different circumstances. Good thing Adaar wasn't there: she'd probably throw him over the wall. Josephine ignored the jest, for she knew how to judge a man's worth. Some men had long lives, and their voices were valuable. Some had short lives. For them, she had nothing but pity. She quietly slipped back into the great hall, then took a door on her right. In the gallery that stretched along the garden, a few servants gathered for a quick break. They watched her approach with polite indifference, almost invisible amid thick shades of the columns. She made a short gesture; one of the servants stood up and disappeared behind the evergreen bush, the last trace of a long summer. Josephine took a deep breath. The air was cold as death.

To be frank, she would prefer this handled in a gentler manner. She'd prefer calling the clerics of Wycome out in the open, not provoking their leader and then handing him belly side up into Leliana's hands. So far the new Divine's rule has proven surprisingly peaceful. Her reforms met resistance, but she suppressed it with a gentle hand. Yet darkness brewed under her silver tongue, threatening to soon overwhelm the shaky peace.

Ah well. She gave an order, and the Inquisition shall deliver. Adaar was happy to comply; nothing brought her appetite out quite as a scared noble. 

Josephine spent the rest of her day signing resignations and answering concerned letters. Inquisitor's adventures in Halamshiral raised a lot of eyebrows, her decision to assign the Inquisition a role of Divine Victoria's honor guard - even more. Two years of peace, ended so quickly. Now they had a diplomatic incident with the qunari, a scandal involving highest members of the Court, and - oh yes! an ancient elven god roaming about. Josephine had a habit of dealing with one issue at a time; she can wrap her head around all that's happening later. Big changes were coming, and it was her job to make sure the Inquisition is prepared. 

She was finishing another letter when a hooded messenger appeared in front of her desk. Candle's fire twitched, making letters dance before Josephine's eyes; she raised her head and met with an unsettling gaze of her visitor. It was a young elven maid; her shining skin and bright stare pointed at high social status, a rarity for her kind. Without wasting time on pleasantries, the messenger dropped a few careful words, bowed lightly, and disappeared. The candles twitched once more, but nothing else moved, no sound followed. Josephine rubbed her forehead and put the quill down. Marquis Briala and her people really ought to be less dramatic lest people start getting ideas.

Cold-blue twilight seeped through the embrasures. Josephine shivered. Lit fireplaces never fully warmed the corridors of Skyhold, which remained chilly from late autumn until late spring. She pulled on a large coat that was hanging behind her chair. Heavy leather smelled of horse, dust, far-away travels. Adaar's coat. Josephine smiled and proceeded upstairs, to Inquisitor's chambers.

The air was wet and warm. A fragrance of Antivan perfume wafted about - Josephine's favourite, spicy yet gentle. A corner behind the writing desk was shielded by a painted room divider, and through its translucent folds she could make out the curves of a naked figure and a gentle blinking of water. It was not the warmth that caused Ambassador to blush.

"Apologies, my lady. I didn't mean to intrude."

Her own voice seemed meek, just like her knees. 

"You're not."

Adaar waved for her to come closer. Bits of white foam floated on the water surface, some of it clinging to Adaar's shoulders. She could almost stretch inside the tub - only her knees showed above the surface. Josephine landed on the tub's edge, tucking her skirt so it wouldn't get wet. Adaar granted her with a tender smile. Josephine felt something inside her melt.

"Inquisitor, about the cleric..."

"Is he scared? Should I break his kneecaps to get the message through?"

"He's writing to his collective as we speak. Leliana's assistant assures me he will be... apprehended. I'm not quite sure what she means by that, and I'd rather it remain that way."

She was usually restrained when expressing personal opinions, but in privacy of inquisitorial chamber manners were omittable. She grimaced. Adaar looked at her with sympathy.

"Don't blame yourself, _kadan_. We gave him a fair chance to back down. Now it's in Leliana's hands, not ours."

Her large palm found Josephine's. Leaned over the tub, she was uncomfortable. She squirmed; the foam splashed, staining Josephine's sleeves. She brushed it off as Adaar cursed softly, grasping her left shoulder. The side effects of Solas' 'amputation' have not fully worn off yet; Inquisitor suffered from increased clumsiness and phantom pains. Her fingers slid along the raised scars that covered her shoulder in a tree-like pattern. Josephine caught herself staring, mesmerized by this gruesome ornament. Scars were the same to her lady as darkening of pigments is to a painting: technically a flaw, they brought out a sinister, otherwise unavailable kind of beauty.

"How is our little Tevinter project coming along?" Adaar asked, as if nothing of interest was happening. Josephine shook the dream off.

"Progress is slow. The White Wolf is a man of, uhm, obscure habits. Our messenger adds that she feels a lot of eyes watching her every move."

"Unsurprising. With a past that colorful, I'd be suspicious too."

"We mentioned the Champion, which seems to have improved our chances. But it's too soon to call the situation stable." She thumbed the folds of her skirt, thinking. "If I may, my lady, it would be wise to keep this one under the table. If the Magistrate finds out, things might get... inconvenient."

"Keep it low, then. And don't rush into anything. Give the lad some time to figure out his priorities."

"Of course."

"Anything else?"

"Lady Briala is here. She's in the garden, waiting for an audience."

"She is? You'd think she'd have her hands full."

"Her hands _are_ full. But her goal is to secure a future for her entire race, not just for the Empire. Hence, she is bound to be present everywhere at the same time."

Adaar's lips curled.

"She's biting more than she can chew. Let's see if we can use that."

She leaned back, raising her chin and allowing her gaze to wander off into golden darkness under the ceiling. Water trickled from her hair onto the floor. Smooth, silky hair. Tucked behind her ears.

"Respectfully, my lady, Marquis is a skilled player of the Game, and a ruthless one at that. Controlling her is beyond our capabilities."

"I don't want to control her, I want to stir her in the right direction." She tapped on Josephine's fingertips. "Briala can be a powerful ally, but she needs a little encouragement. If we're in for another war, we need someone like her on our side."

Strategically, it made sense. But it did little to bring Josephine comfort. As Inquisition began to shrink down, its diplomatic reach shortened, and with Leliana gone to Val Royeaux, the amount of intel they received every day was limited as well. Inquisitor's throne was no longer the center of Thedas; for the first time in three years, they were vulnerable. Josephine understood the necessity, but she didn't like heading into an allegiance with Briala blind.

Ah well. Adaar's word is her command. In public, that is.

"Just be careful, _amora_."

She stood up, thinking - hating - to leave. The thought of her own office, dim and solitary, seemed revolting in this dreamy atmosphere. She was about to disappear behind the divider when Adaar caught her by the wrist.

" _Kadan._ "

"Yes, my lady?"

"Come here."

She stepped back, stumbling. Water splashed onto the floor. She knelt at the tub, longing lips brushing Adaar's lower lip, chin, the curve of her neck; lady Inquisitor filled her very life, everything got grey and soft and powerful. Holding her close to the chest, Josephine could trace every scar, every birthmark - and leave her own trace on Adaar's skin, carve her presence into this living stone. The smell of Antivan spice filled her head. The coat slipped from her shoulders. Water soaked her sleeves. She could not care less. 

"You've been working too much lately," Adaar breathed into the near space between their lips. "Have a break."

Josephine almost blurted _yes, my lady,_ even understanding that she can not stay, that she must share Adaar with the rest of the world. She was content with just being _kadan_ \- the place where heart lies - most of the time. But sometimes...

"It is kind of you, but I do have twelve diplomatic invoices to review."

"They waited this long, they can wait a bit longer."

Adaar wrapped her arm around Josephine's shoulders, heavy and muscular and almighty. How do you say no to a woman like that?

"I--ah!" Josephine opened her mouth precisely in time for Adaar to bite her lip.

"No chance I could convince you to stay?"

"Herah, _mi amora..._ Were it up to me, I'd never leave your side."

Adaar smirked, but her grip loosened, letting Josephine stand straight again. As she picked up the coat and adjusted it on her shoulders, Adaar slowly rose from the tub. All seven feet of her.

"Meet me here later, Ambassador," she purred, toweling off. "I'll get rid of our visitor... and then I'll be all yours."

Josephine made an effort not to giggle like a little girl.

"I'll be waiting."

***

The night has settled in Skyhold, though rare strips of light could still be seen from the castle's watchtowers. The only light source in the garden was an oil lantern hanging from the arch of the gazebo. Lady Briala sat in a spot of light, tapping her fingers.

She liked this place better than the great hall. No eyes. Back when she was just lady Ambassador - a title that meant absolutely nothing, as time has proven, - she rather enjoyed crowded spaces, being able to disappear, to dissolve in a line of servants. Just another elf, maybe better dressed, but ah - they see nothing, those lords and ladies. They see no further than the cuts of their night gowns. Pity, really. The Game is full of wonders if one only desires to look close enough.

Now she was a power to be reckoned with. Which was both an advantage and a downfall. For you see, the absurdity of prejudice is such that it paints one as simultaneously weak and mighty beyond compare. When she was underestimated, she could be invisible because nobles didn't recognize her from a hole in the ground. Now she was a danger, and every pair of eyes watched her. Some with fear, some with disgust, some - with curiosity. She could feel their stares sliding down her back, crawling down her sleeves like little spiders. Better to be in the garden. Better to be alone.

The nearby bushes rustled softly; she turned and saw Adaar emerge from the dark. She didn't hear her approach. She never did.

"Lady Briala." Adaar bowed, arm behind her back, as chevaliers do. Nobody ever saw her curtsy, or cover her mouth with a hand fan, or even wear a dress.

"Inquisitor." Briala gave her a nod. "You're making friends."

Adaar chuckled.

"What can I say? I'm a people person..." She leaned against an arched column, horns almost touching the ceiling. "It's going to be much quieter in Wycome now. Just how I like it."

Briala stood up, gaze locked with Adaar's. Not a very effective tactics when your opponent is seven feet tall, but a symbol at least.

"Impressive. But I didn't come here to discuss your successes," she said sharply. "I'm here on behalf of the Empire. I need to know what you're planning to do."

Adaar shrugged. If she knew what Briala meant, she gave no clue.

"Third of my visitors today claim to be here on behalf of the Empire." She rubbed her left shoulder, looking about casually. "Right now, I'm planning to get a drink. Maybe a second bath."

Under different circumstances, Briala would've let that slip. But today she had no patience for the finesse of the Game. Better to make oneself vulnerable than to jump through hoops for Inquisitor's pleasure.

"Now is not the time to be cocky." Words quick as arrows, step forward to strengthen her pose. "The storm is coming."

"Indeed." Adaar's eyes flashed with a spark of excitement. Briala's rush did not escape her attention. Fair enough, let her gloat - the business is too important to be picky.

"You didn't come here because Celene asked you."

Not a question - a fact. And a provocation. Briala sighed, understanding all too well that now was the time to show her hand, and pray it gets the result she needs.

"People are disappearing across the Empire," she stated. " _My_   people. And Celene is not willing to do anything about it."

A moment of silence was serene. Even Adaar, always so collected, could not hide the knot of concern lingering on her face. They both knew what this meant. The Dread Wolf has begun his hunt. They've been preparing for several months, they scrubbed their ranks, rooted out spies, took every imaginable precaution - but to face an enemy like none before, an enemy whose tactics they could not understand, an enemy they knew so little about - except that he is dangerous and cunning...

Adaar tapped the tip of her nose.

"Knowing her, did you honestly expect anything else?" she asked slowly.

Despite their recent reconciliation in public, Briala's relationship with Celene was strained. As it happens too often, a promise of change was all Celene proved capable of; she cared more about her place on the throne than about her elven subjects. As rumors about what happened at the Exalted Council kept spreading, the hostility towards elves went unchecked, and that led to clashes between the Marquis and the Empress. Luckily, with Celene wrapped around Inquisitor's little finger, Briala had more freedom to act. But one can only reach so far from a spot at Empress' feet.

"I am not going to complain, Inquisitor. I'm many years past that. It seems my title rings hollow to Her Majesty, and so does the freedom of elven people. If so, I am prepared to take action on my own... with or without anyone's approval."

"You're in a difficult situation," Adaar noted, soft notes almost camouflaging steel in her voice. "Even more regrettable that you brought it on yourself. See, I know what happened in Halamshiral was not a surprise to you. In fact, you've been aware of Dread Wolf's existence for a while now."

"And what if I have?" Briala threw her chin up, arms crossed. "You'd be working against yourself, trying to push me back into exile."

For a moment Adaar studied her without any particular expression, and then her face lit up with a wide smile.

"But I approve. Elves face enough oppression without an ancient boogeyman like Solas. Only problem is that you've miscalculated, haven't you? You never anticipated he'd want an entire world - and the qunari... no one could've predicted they'd get involved."

She stared into the throbbing flame of the lantern, and the fire coiled up under her gaze. Briala sensed light tickling on her shoulders. Magic, no doubt.

"Many will follow Solas, you know," Adaar continued. "Freshest carrots, and no whip required... He makes a convincing case."

"Even if he doesn't, why wouldn't they follow? Humans haven't given us much choice. Besides, he's a god. God of lies, sure, but still..."

"They don't need a god. They need an empress."

The words crushed with a dead weight on Briala's shoulders. She stared at Adaar with widened eyes, uncertain if her ears were tricking her. Did she just hear that right?..

"You're suggesting--"

"I'm not suggesting anything." Adaar's tone got firmer, more grounded. "All I'm saying is that Fen'Harel will bring about a great change for the elves, even if his rule won't last. We can behead him, we can tear down his statues, but an ideal is not as easily erased. Until that ideal is dead, elves will keep rising in his name. Right now they are restless, frustrated. Their children are being sold into slavery. Their temples lie in ruins. Their brothers and sisters live in the woods and call them 'flat-ears' for not being educated in the old ways. The world must change for them, as it has changed for the mages. And when this change has come, they will need a leader... someone who's already recognized, who's been on their side this entire time. They will need a protector to shield them from human anger, a land of their own, a purpose... and you are in power to grant them with it all, and more."

Briala listened cautiously without interrupting, but waiting for betrayal any second. To believe for a split second the Inquisitor, the Lady Protector of the Divine, could speak such things and be serious... no. It couldn't be true. And yet she could not recognize a lie in those words. It was head-spinning. Mouth-opening. 

"And what would be the Inquisition's place in this new world?" she asked, voice soft like a step on thin ice.

"We are already losing ground, and it's only getting worse. The Council wants solutions, not more problems. But you and I both know victory over Solas won't come without bloodshed and chaos. It is in our interest to minimize it... and to direct its currents. And after that... as a friend of mine once said, hopefully those in power will remember who helped - and who did not."

"You dream big, Inquisitor," Briala sighed, "I'll give you that. But I'm yet to hear a single strategy from you."

"Then you're not listening." Adaar gave her a sharp gaze. "As a result of your encounter with Fen'Harel, you were relieved of a priceless asset. Something you've been keeping to yourself this whole time."

"How do you know?"

"Does it matter? The important part is that you lost them. You lost them all, so you think. I am here to tell you that is not so."

"Oh?"

The fire blinked and died. All Briala could see now was Adaar's silhouette moving slowly like a large ship - and with same strange grace. Briala suddenly became aware of the cold and silence that surrounded them. Not a single bird gifted songs to the moonless sky. Adaar turned and dissolved in this silence within a moment.

"Go to Kirkwall," she murmured softly. "Ask after a Dalish woman who lives in the Alienage. But don't ask Varric, I hear he dotes on her like a mother-hen; he'd never let you touch a hair on her head... Convince her to join the Inquisition, and you can have her secret in return. Celene doesn't have to know."

Briala shook her head. Just like Adaar to throw in some cryptic bullshit at the very end.

"Very well, Inquisitor."

She was about to leave as well when the night rattled with noises. Someone was tearing through the garden, leaves whipping them, branches clawing their clothes. Briala froze, watching the lousy stranger approach at double speed, ragged breath escaping their chest with a whistle. The stranger turned out to be a small man in heavy winter gear; he was wet, unshaved, and so vigorous his eyes almost glowed in the dark.

"Your Worship!" he pleaded. "Your Worship, a word!"

"What is it?"

"Urgent news..." he paused, hunkering over in attempt to catch a breath. His round chest rose and lowered with effort. Despite the cold, he was sweating. "Urgent news from Jader, my lady."

"Jader?" Briala caught a slight note of surprise in Adaar's voice. "I didn't--"

She didn't finish because the sky exploded.  _Again._ There's something you do not expect to see twice.

Or at least Briala thought it was the sky. The flash was so bright she lost sight for a second; a distant cry was overhauled by a sound so deep and powerful it rattled the ground. Briala could feel the tremor spread, shaking her every bone - a wail of the mountain. Cobblestones danced and crumbled under their feet; a sphere of green light was blooming on the horizon like some sort of nightmarish flower. Night became day, and Briala saw Adaar's face, a still, immobile statue. She saw the messenger's face, creased and round and mortified. She saw every leaf, every branch, every arch and swirl of the gazebo.

The sphere erupted from behind the mountains and was growing slowly, devouring black shadows of snowy peaks on its way towards the castle. For a very long minute, it seemed as if it was never going to stop, as if it was going to swallow Skyhold and everyone in it. The castle came alive: Stomping of boots, panicked cries, clanging of armor. Someone was running on the battlements, shouting. Torchlights flashed in the dark like glowing eyes of a scared beast.

But three figures in the garden could not move. Mesmerized, they stared into the light, into the heart of a glowing sphere that crawled towards them with horrible indifference. For a brief moment, they felt it. Cold wind of death caressing their cheeks. But then it slowed down once, then again, and then Briala noticed the light began to fade. Ribbons of it swirled high among the clouds, writhing in unearthly shapes - and disappearing.

Adaar licked her lips.

 _"Vashedan,"_   she muttered. "Josephine is going to kill me."


	11. fall

Jader awoke in a white cloth of frost. It settled on the roofs and the black cliffs, and foamy waves licked it from the stones. It glistened on golden statues; lions' manes turned white, as if time had suddenly caught up with their unchanging beauty. The air was crisp and stingy. From the sea came a warmer breeze; clouds swirled ominously where air currents collided. Echo of thunder traveled through the labyrinth of streets. The storm was coming.

Anders could see it from the mountaintop. He stopped to rest here, at the beginning of a railed footpath, already ankle-deep in snow. They left home a while ago, but he could still feel a needle of anguish stinging his chest. Anguish mixed with anxiety - and relief. Jader felt wrong. Unpleasant. Walls had eyes. Rain had faces in it. Streets were uneven and empty.

Now it seemed so tranquil, almost welcoming. Not at all like last night, cold and dark and tarred like a sailor's trunk.

"The ships are dancing."

Leaning over his shoulder, Maeven pointed into the harbor, where tiny dark dots were bouncing on the waves, weightless and ethereal.

"I want a ship. Can we buy one?"

"We can steal one," Anders murmured. He adjusted the makeshift harness that kept the girl fastened to his back. Snow slowed her down; it was easier to carry her around. From behind came a creaking sound; Hawke's stubbly cheek brushed against Anders' temple.

"That one." The rogue pointed at a boat further away from the shore, with red sails. "Do you like it?"

"It's small. I want a big ship."

Hawke laughed and ruffled her hair with his large palm.

"When this is over, I'm stealing you the biggest ship I can find. And then we're going pirate. Yarrr!.."

Anders rolled his eyes. Being with Hawke really _was_ like raising a twelve-year-old.

"Don't count me in. I get seasick."

Hawke eyed him with a grin that promised nothing benevolent.

"We can take Anders prisoner."

"Can we make him walk the plank?"

"Of course. We're pirates, we can make him do whatever we want."

"Please don't," Anders begged.

The day started bright, but the approaching storm promised to quickly rectify that. The footpath which Inquisition had secured possessed none of the comforts of south-eastern roads: It was a crude ladder carved into the mountainside. Each step a climb. Each step a risk. Frozen mirrors under their boots, a stripe of hawser to the left, a hundred-feet fall to the right. And nothingness that creeps along, waiting for them to slip into its open maw. High winds were sweeping the narrow road; here and there were signs of recent landslides. Anders could not begin to conceive how Inquisition used this path; no horse would be able to pass here. Well, maybe a very smart horse. He did hear stories about Inquisitor's mounts - brave and cunning beasts that could trot for days, scale, even fight. Though he also heard that Inquisitor rides dragons and jumps from the roof when she's bored, so... 

The watchtower guard at the town border warned them against the blizzard that's been ravaging in the mountains for three days now and was not about to cease. A common thing in late fall, he said, eyeing the three of them as if they were either a gang of bandits or a traveling bedlam. Hawke and Anders exchanged worried looks. Not that they had any choice at this point. They were being hunted, out of food, one of them was slowly dying, and one was not even ten. Starve in Jader, get their throats slit, wait until the Calling comes - or die of exposure on the way to Skyhold. Those were the options.

So they got up, packed their things, and left Jader. They passed the western city gates, the outposts, and then there was but rock and frost, and howling of the wind.

As one fears the silent presence of a corpse or the calmness of a freshly dug grave, so does one fear the slopes of Frostbacks that loom above the travelers as they venture through this inhospitable domain. At first glance, these masses of rock are not meant to ever be stepped on: Walls of ice and granite strive up to the open sky, wells between them many miles deep, pitch-black and cold. One wrong step, and you could be falling for a very, very long time. The highest peaks are covered with snow capes all year round - Anders could see them in the distance, glimmering like fairy-tale diamond castles. Proud and everlasting, they seemed indifferent to the warmth of mortal bodies, their turmoil and strife no more than a hazy dream.

Beautiful, though, it was. The dense forests were left behind, and Anders felt dizzy gazing at the horizon, for it was wide and white and invigorating. If not for the girl on his back, he could spread his arms and pretend he's a bird. This kind of freedom - the kind that is found _outside_ \- was his life-long fascination. If the mountains could sing, they'd sing a hymn of liberty. Of how they stand unbound and unchained, how the air is weightless and the water clean. How they watch all life struggle far below, how sorrows of mortality reach only their feet. How those who try to claim them fall, one by one, into the great void. He could feel the tingling when they passed a particularly dark cavern or a well. The Veil thinned, yielding to the hunger of spirits and the icy touch of death.

And still, there was life.

At first, Anders spotted prints. Here and there the snow was toppled with little paws. Looking closely, he noticed the punctures surrounding each print: tiny sharp fangs. Too small for a wolf. Too large for a nug. Wyrms, maybe? Wolverines? Natural philosophy was never his strong suit. Verilia was good at that. She'd probably call him and idiot for choosing to travel in the beginning of winter, and for not recognizing danger when it's shoved into his face.

But it was just him now. Just him and Hawke.

Soon he started spotting movement. Little shadows crept swiftly among rocks. At times he would catch a glimpse of a shining black eye or a patch of fur. Whatever living things nested here, they appeared comfortable with ice and snow. What did they eat? There was no greenery to be found. Predators, then. Hunting whom? Other animals? Or something more... exotic?

The promised blizzard came after noon. Grey skies darkened; winds changed rapidly, jerking their cloaks left and right. Thin snowy dust rose from the ground, clogging their eyes and ears. Soon they saw no farther than an arm's reach. The cold crawled beneath their clothes, slowly freezing their blood, chilling their bones. Moving became difficult. Anders noticed how his every step became slower, shorter. Frost crystallized on his sleeves, covered his hair and lashes and brows. That, however, was nothing compared to the danger of not being able to see: He kept wandering closer and closer to the edge, and only the rope appearing in front of him kept pointing at his mistake.

"Careful, now," Hawke warned him, catching his elbow right before Anders made a step into a sinkhole to his left. His sharp senses were proving invaluable in this weather, so he made sure to stay close to the mage the deeper they walked into the storm.

He also worried about the girl. Maeven whimpered as every blow of the wind burrowed into her robes. Her grip on Anders' neck loosened, and he had to watch her lest she slipped out of the harness. He focused on feeling her weight, on her little body warming his back, on putting one foot in front of the other. The wind howled. Its cries drilled into his skull, monotonous, joyless.  _Careful. Deep breaths. One foot in front of the other._

"Anders, I'm cold," the girl complained, her fingers digging into his neck.

"It's going to be alright. Just hold on."

 _One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other._ In theory, he could keep a small fire lit in his palm, but that would take focus, and he was not ready to let his guard down just to stay warm. He decided to conserve mana till the need is dire, or till they reach Skyhold. So long as he can move, there is no need to waste energy. They had to get there by dusk, or they'd be stranded here for the night - which meant death. They just need to make it past the blizzard. Maeven's weight pressed heavy on Anders' back. He would gladly have her walk on her own, but with her little stature she'd be buried under the snowdrift. To his comfort, she stopped whining. Maybe she got too tired, or maybe she felt how troubled he was - or maybe she simply drifted off in her thoughts. It has been known to happen. One more mile, then one more, then one more.  _One foot in front of other foot in front of the one foot in front of the other_

"So this is how I die, huh? All those darkspawn I've slain, all the qunari and templars and Maker knows what... That's just insulting," Hawke grumbled, his voice almost lost in the wind and snow.

"We're not dead yet," Anders objected. Not that he was thrilled at the prospect himself, but such was his fate that terrible ordeals of all kinds became a regular occurrence. Exposure seemed a pleasant breeze after templars, Tranquility, darkspawn, Justice, and other joys in his life.

Hawke pulled the hood of his cloak further down, shielding his face from the wind.

"Any idea on how we're going to convince Adaar not to execute you? I mean, you did save a bunch of her scouts that one time, and I'm her friend, of sorts... but if she decides you're less trouble dead, even a permission to touch my beard won't change her mind."

Anders shrugged. He was busy trying to avoid slipping and subsequently dropping his precious passenger to her death.

"Not everyone wants to touch your beard, Hawke... As to the plan, well, I'm no strategist, but it seems not introducing myself as 'that-guy-who-blows-things-up' would be a great start. Oh, and those scouts weren't a unique case, if you're interested."

"Does she know that?"

Anders chuckled, brief memory of terrified faces and stretched hands bringing a warm, fatherly feeling.

"That remains to be seen."

He never spoke much of that. It was his pet project, something to lift his spirits in darker times. A legacy. A long-span aftermath of the events in Kirkwall. Say, a platoon is trapped in a valley with Corypheus' forces pressing on their backs. They face annihilation. And then... _Swoosh!_ A red templar falls, arrow stuck deep in his throat. Another down, dagger in the back. A couple of spells from a nearby forest. Enemy's ranks are in chaos, and soldiers push them back. When the battle is finished, the mysterious allies are nowhere to be found - but who is a saved man to look a gifted horse in the mouth?.. Or, let's say, Inquisition mages are low on lyrium. The budget is tight, the need is dire; but someone somewhere pulls a lever, and voila - fresh shipment is delivered to their doorstep. Who are they to ask questions? Every time a lone scout is in danger, every time an undercover mission goes wrong, every time people are starving, bleeding, lost and frightened - someone softly nudges them back onto the right course, and once again things run smoothly as an oiled cog. People spin tall tales about Inquisitor's might. Somewhere, a certain someone smiles to his thoughts. Everyone is happy.

He wasn't doing it solely out of gratitude. It was a statement; _she_ was a statement. Never before has a mage risen so high in Southern society; and not a simple mage but an apostate, a Vashoth. To rebels, she was hope made flesh. She gifted other mages their freedom, put a radical reformer on Sunburst Throne, brought justice and order to warring lands.

And then, of course, there was the box. It was left in one of his old hideouts, which he crawled to after a particularly bad fight. He leaned back, trying to steady his breath, and his hand brushed against wood. He dug into the moss, and a wooden strongbox emerged, full of healing potions and long-lasting food. An attached note read,

_"To my elusive friend - from grateful Inquisitor."_

There was also a handful of square steel buttons cut from the cloaks of fallen Ravens, hand-carved rings, scrolls of parchment in little bronze tubes - the belongings of nameless men and women whose bodies Inquisition would stumble upon by accident while looking for its new allies. In times of war, mourning one's dead was as much an everyday routine as brushing teeth. To pass a body or a last word on was both a practical move and a sign of great respect - it allowed armies to keep score of their losses, to avoid confusion, and to fuel the spirit of vengeance in their living soldiers.

Thus was established a pact, without either side facing the other directly. At times Inquisition would try to reach out, but Ravens always managed to retreat before being confronted. Anders reclined from exposing himself or his agents to Adaar - out of politeness if nothing else. It is one thing to help a mysterious stranger - it is another to support someone whom half the world wants dead. Hell, her Commander is Cullen-fucking-Rutherford, how awkward a briefing would it make?

So yeah, maybe it would be wise to keep his mouth shut. Hawke is acquainted, let him do the talking. Meanwhile, Anders will fish for clues. Out of Adaar's view. And Cullen's, preferably. Though rumors told he was still in the Winter Palace, maintaining presence. Or maybe he was there just to annoy everyone.

There will be time to think later. First, they need to make it out alive.

They've been walking for many hours now. How many? Everything looked the same through this bloody blizzard. By the trajectory of light in the sky Anders concluded that half the day had passed. His legs were sore, and he couldn't feel his fingers. The path circled among the mountains, scaling upwards then falling downwards, and every so often a lump of snow or a handful of rocks would slide under Anders' feet. Sounds traveled at great distances here, echoing in the caverns; everything stood still and moved at the same time, and it was difficult to understand if the slide is rattling far away or right above your head. It was odd and confusing. He began to wonder if indeed they would perish here, few hours away from the fortress... at least that would make for hilarious reading. Veterans of the Blight, leaders of Mage Rebellion, Kirkwall's heroes, et cetera et cetera - frozen alive because someone was too stubborn to turn back. Varric is going to piss himself. Although Hawke's death probably won't amuse him as much. 

The sun crawled toward the horizon. Light became blue and began to fade. With it, last silhouettes of the mountains around began to vanish, and soon Anders could not tell where they were at all. The darkness was dense, greedy, and he felt its tiny paws clawing the bottom of his cloak.

They climbed up another peak and took a short break, when Maeven opened her cat-like eyes and writhed about anxiously.

"There are towers over there," she said, pointing into the night.

He gazed in that direction but saw nothing at first. Then, suddenly, the wind calmed down. The snowy dust settled. And then he saw it.

Skyhold.

Its walls rose up above the sea of black and white, massive even compared to the great mountains. The towers strove even higher, and their narrow windows blazed with torchlight that faded into the fog and darkness. More than two hundred feet tall, the fortress resembled a high dragon nesting on top of a peak, yellow eyes shining brightly, grey scales brushing the clouds. The only way in was a narrow, long bridge built over a mile-deep ravine, and there was no doubt what would happen should anyone try to invade Inquisitor's home. In many ways it looked just like her, or the version of her Anders had constructed in his mind based on the tales and reports. It was a monument of pride, but pride well-grounded, earned through battles, preserved through hardships. And though shielded on every side with miles of unconquerable landscape, it did not hide. It stood proud and strong, soft touch of moonlight its only companion.

He never thought to see something so grand. Kinloch Hold was a bit similar, but its walls were soaked in fear, and it was grim and creepy, and he hated it with all his being and wanted it gone. Vigil's Keep in Amaranthine was built to withstand punishment and hence was the crescendo of practicality: Sturdy thick walls, wooden sheds and basements, warm breath of cattle, persistent smell of wet fur. Originally erected as a line of defense from sea, the Gallows in Kirkwall were designed to invoke fear; even their architecture was somehow profoundly unsettling. Skyhold was a fairy-tale castle. A ghostly ship. Something you only read about in old books.

"Enjoying the view?" Hawke murmured, dusting snowflakes off Anders' shoulder. The mage turned to him with flaring eyes, cheeks and nose red not from the cold but from excitement.

"It's... breathtaking."

They began to descend towards the bridge, anxious but mostly relieved. The journey was long, but they survived. They made it just fine. Soon, there will be a hot meal, a warm bed, a change of clothing. A friendly face. Just over this last peak.

And in that exact moment Anders shivered from a distinct sensation of being watched. There was something moving behind the curtain of snow, and the rocks, and shadows. He started, but it was already gone. Perhaps his mind grew weary of the dark and was now painting new pictures over it. Or maybe it was an animal, same that left the footprints they saw. Or perhaps...

"Hold." Hawke caught his sleeve and pulled back. "Did you hear that?"

Anders stopped. In silence, the wind howled. Clouds of white vapor floated before their mouths. And nothing else.

Slowly, Anders brought Hawke's wrist up and pressed it to his chest. Light blue glow enveloped his clenched fist. Icy air burned his throat with each breath.

"What do we do?" he whispered.

"We wait." Hawke's fingers twisted around the dagger, and Anders heard low screeching of brittle steel against frozen leather.

For quite a while nothing happened. Anders began to think it was indeed their imagination. Things get funny when you're tired. Funny and frightening. He shook his head and turned around.

And then the ground shuddered.

He felt it from the boots up to the head - that low rumble shaking every stone, spreading in waves from somewhere high above. And even before he turned, he felt a large shadow cross the sky behind his back, as if a giant woke in a cavern and was now clawing its way to the surface. Something big sighed, oohed, and swirled up above. He threw his head back, his neck stiff from tension.

"Oh Maker."

From the mountaintop, sliding with odd gentleness down the cliff, a huge mass of rock and snow was approaching the travelers. Shards of granite the size of Anders' head bounced against the ground like beads of a torn necklace, producing that rumbling sound: _Ton-ton-ton!_ Waves of snow rose and fell, burying everything in their way, and rare light shone on it like a glimmering veil.

Hawke swirled on his heels and yanked Anders sideways so hard they both almost fell. His breath left a wet spot beneath Anders' ear.

"Run, run, RUN!!!"

He didn't need to be asked twice. Clutching the belt of a harness with both hands, he lunged into the dark and out of the slide's way. To outrun it seemed like a hopeless task, but he was way too in a rush to stop and ponder. Snow filled his boots and soaked his knees; he fell, toppling over, and felt the weight on his back fade away. The night was pierced by a cry of fear; he saw Maeven's little body twitch in the air. She hit the ground and rolled down the cliff, clawing the slippery frozen stones in fruitless attempt to halt the falling. Too small to be caught by the rail, she slipped past the footpath and vanished behind the edge. Anders felt his heart skip a bit.

Her cries rang in his ears. They were so much louder than the slide.

He leapt forward, abandoning the path. His knees met the ground with a dull crunching sound; the world exploded with pain, hot red spots dancing before his eyes. He growled, clenching his teeth, and forced himself upwards, though every move caused his legs to shake and flare with agony. He reached the edge and leaned over a large boulder. The rumble behind was becoming louder. In the corner of his eye, he spotted Hawke rushing towards them, his hood thrown back and his hair swiping the cold wind.

Maeven hung above the hundred feet of nothingness. Her palms were quivering. She could barely hold on. The tremors of sliding rock caused the stones underneath her to jump out of the ground. They rolled off the cliff, and only silent clicking indicated their trail after that. Once she almost caught a solid rock, but it yielded under her fingers. Screaming, she slid down even further, her limbs jerking like those of a doll. She was now an inch away from the cliff. Anders could swear he saw the black abyss lick its teeth in anticipation.

He stretched his hands. The boulder under his belly was also shaking, but remained solid for now. He made an effort to reach the girl, but she was further than he had assumed. In attempt to grab her in one move, he hunched over the boulder with the upper half of his body. His boots tripped and hovered above the ground.

"Anders!!" He could hear tears in her voice, a desperate call of someone so small and fragile, so easily squished between those large, indifferent shards of ice and granite...

"Hold tight!.." He stretched a little more. This time, his support decided enough was enough. It turned, churning smaller pieces out, and began to slowly roll down into the ravine. Anders lost balance. Up turned down, then up again. His mouth was full of dust and snow. He hit his head once and then again, adding to the pain in broken kneecaps. Almost fainting, he grabbed something warm and small with one hand and sunk another into the soil, feeling his nails crumble and soak the stone with blood.

And then he stopped.

He managed to catch Maeven's hand right before she was plunged into free fall. Hawke was holding his another hand, preventing both of them from sliding down to their death. He pulled on Anders' collar, and slowly, with a titanic effort, managed to drag them back onto the path.

Anders fell onto his knees, clutching Maeven in his arms so tight it threatened to suffocate her.

"See, I got you," he whispered, catching his breath. "I got you..."

"No time for feelings, Anders!" Hawke's strong hands lifted him up, and, oddly enough, he did not faint from pain again. Maybe his knees were not broken after all.

They limped further away at as great speed as they could, while humongous chunks of the mountain began to land onto the path behind them, shaking everything with their weight. Icicles and grey lumps of frozen mud rained down upon their heads, bruising their shoulders and backs like some sort of hellish hail.

Anders only spotted the cavern to their right when Hawke shoved him right into it. Water splashed under his feet; disoriented, he stumbled down into the deep, then stopped. Hawke followed him, leaning against the wall, his chest heaving with exhaustion.

After a moment of gathering their bearings, they turned to stare outside, where bones and flesh of Frostbacks was still flying down, toppling the road, and disappearing in the ravine.

"What in the blaze?.." Hawke breathed out with a bewildered look. Anders only shook his head.

The slide came and went over the road, proceeding somewhere down. Gradually, its rumbling became quieter. Anders huffed in relief. Every inch of his body was aching, and judging by the blurred vision, he might have cracked his skull. The child in his arms has curled up into a ball, shielding her head with both hands. Scared out of her mind, no doubt.

They did not get a very long rest. As soon as the noise outside seemed to have calmed down, over it came a creaking sound of light feet pressing into the snow. Hawke eyed Anders with concern, then grimaced and pulled out his dagger - the one he managed not to drop. Tense and ready for anything, they waited a minute and then another. And then another. And then...

He felt the familiar tingle on the back of his palms. From around the corner came a soft red glow. Then a figure appeared, black against the lighter spot of the cavern's entrance. It was holding a ball of red light in its open palm, leaning on a staff covered in strange-looking runes. Anders has never seen those before. They were elegant in design, devoid of sharp rectangular forms common in dwarven craft or dispassionate geometry of Tranquil make. Red light seeped through them in droplets, pulsing, like blood pulses in a living body.

And there was a smell. Non-intrusive but persistent, forgotten yet familiar. Spices, maybe? Flowers?..

Before the stranger could speak or announce his presence in any other way, Hawke attacked. His muscles twisted and uncoiled with momentum like a tight spring. He leaped, large body slicing through the air, one foot finding balance in the nearby wall and another kicking forward. He moved so fast Anders lost the sight of him for a split second. The blade flickered with red sparks and lunged to sting the black figure. A moment more - and it would have run through the stranger's chest.

But he only made one step. One careful, swift step.

The ball of light in his palm unraveled into a knot of tentacles that snapped toward Hawke's body, a dozen crimson arrows. Anders heard himself yell in helpless rage, frost sizzling in his hand, then Hawke's offended growl as red chains shrunk around his limbs, neck and torso, and tied him down without any hope of release. Freezing spells flashed and missed, leaving the stranger unharmed. Hawke jerked and kicked, trying to escape, but magic ropes only shrunk more as he struggled, slicing into his body and ripping through the heavy leather of his cloak. He groaned like a captured beast, each move so violent it could cause the entire cavern to collapse. Nothing.

"Ah shit!! You fuck!.. You blight-tainted spiderfucking bloody piece of!.." Hawke bit on his lower lip, spewing curses that would summon horror even on a drunken smith.

The stranger watched him struggle with his head cocked, nervous blinking of light sometimes carving his features out of the night. As far as Anders could tell, he was elven, though tall as no other elf. He was wearing a strange suit of armor, just as elegant and foreign-looking as the runes on his staff. Anders could not tell what the material was, but it looked smooth as silk and unbelievably flexible.

"I'm disappointed, Hawke," the stranger noted with grim amusement. "People tell stories about you. Having heard most of them, I pictured a hero... and you're just a glorified pet."

That voice Anders recognized. That voice he'd been recalling often in the past few weeks.

Hawke responded with another growl and made an effort to bite Eryien's ankle. The elf moved his leg out of the way, then pressed Hawke's body down with his foot, slowly smothering him, all the while staring into his eyes. 

"Biting when you are told. Putting your life on the line. So much loyalty. Truly, it is unfortunate you must be put down. You could've been invaluable... I'm sorry."

Anders felt hot rage boil in his chest and bubble up into the mouth. His fists clenched. Cold power squeezed his fingers, aching to catch, to tear apart, to kill. Protect Hawke. All else is expendable.

Lucky for him, Eryien was so focused on conveying his thoughts he seemed to have forgotten about Anders' existence. Careful now. Focus the anger, let it flow and freeze into a blade. Sharpen it with clear mind. Raise it high. Deep breaths, water dripping down the stone. And...

With lightning speed, Eryien threw his hand up, and before Anders could react he felt his throat get sore and coarse, as if it was filled with sand. He coughed, scratching his own neck and struggling to breathe. Trying to dispel the curse brought no relief; his vision darkened and he knelt, feeling his life fleeing the agonizing body.

"You do not succumb to your fate, Master of Ravens," said the voice nearby. "I respect that. But that is exactly why you must be destroyed."

Thoughts clashed and whirled in Anders' head. What was this magic? Its overwhelming power... there must be a source. Demons? Blood? Lyrium?

"What... in the Void... do you want?.." he breathed out, sinking onto his side. The stone was cool to the touch and welcomed his aching being into its harsh embrace.

"Your death."

Through blurry shades of red, Anders saw the elf's face leaning over him. His eyes scanned the mage with curiosity. He expressed no concern or anger. Just this soft, almost academic interest. In some distant part of Anders' mind rang an absurd realization: Eryien was beautiful. Thin curves of his chin, long nose, smooth olive skin. Bright, intelligent eyes. The portrait of superiority.

"It is an unfortunate necessity, Master," the voice continued. "Someone must do it... so that he doesn't have to. Consider it a personal favor."

 _This is insane_ , Anders thought. _You're insane. This whole situation is ridiculous_. If only he could get rid of that choking spell... never experienced anything like it. Would make a fascinating study...

For a brief second, his consciousness left him, and he was caressed by merciful oblivion of near-death. His body became warm and comfortable. He did not need to struggle anymore.

Then something snapped, clicked, and the world became very bright and very green. And he saw his own hands, broken fingers and skinned knuckles; his robe, ripped to shreds by remnants of the landslide; Hawke's pale face, Eryien's regal features, stones covered in water and black mold. Air streamed through his lungs again; he gasped, tears rolling down his chin.

_Enough._

It was not a voice but a strong thought, an injection forced into the brain that shouted over all other impulses. Anders blinked. His head was ringing.

When his eyes have adjusted to the newly found brightness, he made out a shape on the cavern floor a yard away. The shape rolled over and proceeded to direct a wild gaze somewhere behind Anders' back. The hanging silence was interceded by short _slop, slop!_  - child's feet meeting cold water.

She approached the kneeling foe in a stiffened, slow gait. Only then did Anders realize that her skin, her eyes, hair - all of her being was evincing a green glow. She walked past him without acknowledging his presence, and he was taken aback by the strong smell of marsh water and the warmth she radiated. She stopped beside Eryien, who tried to stand up on shaking limbs. He tried to cast another spell to stop her, but another flash of green light and a swing of her hand sent him flying several yards. Anders could only sit and blink dumbly as Maeven hurled the elf about like a broken marionette.

Stumbling, Eryien straightened up. He now studied her instead of Anders and Hawke, but behind his curiosity was a distant flash of panic.

"What are you, creature of the Fade?" he inquired.

_Your death._

Another swing of her hand threw him off balance, as if she was commanding winds and gravity. He backed off toward the entrance, and she followed him outside in calm steps - same way walk those born into owning every living being and patch of land around them. The green glow intensified and was now painful to see; wincing, Anders crawled to the opening. He could not tear his gaze from that creature. Part of him reveled in contrast between her power and frailty, but above all it was his awe before all things unknown, before the eternal surprise that was magic, the Fade, the spirits. A drawing in a book which he, like a child, could never bear to miss. Even half-alive and utterly confused.

Their visitor was not about to go down easily. Flashes of red light clashed with green, swirling around, trying to catch the girl, to bind her wrists and ankles. But every time he would get too close she launched another wave, and he was swept again and again, further and further, until all parting him from the edge was an inch of frozen ground.

His stance became heavy, unsteady. Hers, on the contrary, strengthened. Her feet got lighter. At first the creaking of snow ceased. Then she no longer left footprints in it. Then she stepped on air and ascended it like a ladder, until her empty green eyes met his. Eryien looked at her with mix of fear and grim determination. A small stream of blood ran down his chin. His royal face turned twisted, sharp, irregular.

"I don't know what you are," he growled, "but you won't be able to--"

_There is demise and suffering behind your back. They follow you about in darkest night, they watch and wait and howl at the moon. Your end has not yet come. For now... you fall._

A deafening rattle shook the ground; Anders vaguely saw Maeven's figure falling down and stretched his arms in time to catch her. Someone screamed. Light poured over his arms, the mountain, the cavern. All came to move, and then something heavy landed on the back of his head, and he blacked out.

 

When his eyes opened again, everything around had a strange bluish-white shimmer to it and was very cold to the touch. He tried to move, but his body refused to obey. Something soft and warm touched his fingers.

"H-Hawke?.." he called, words barely leaving the blood-covered lips.

Nobody answered.

Suddenly, the ceiling cracked, many voices poured in, and someone very large and strong leaned over him, wide grin stretching ear to ear.

"Would you look at that," a deep, husky voice purred. Anders tried to fight, but couldn't even twitch.

Pain, struggle. Aching heart. Hawke, where is Hawke. He must be found. Must be saved. Hawke.

Blurry shadows thickened, and soon he could not care less what would happen.


	12. asit tal-eb

Before he woke, he felt only the prickling of wool and the pulsation of light under his eyelids.

Then there were smells. Smells of herbs and illness. The air was dry as hell and made the back of his throat itch. Swallowing was difficult. His palms were slick and cold; the odor of blood hit his nostrils as soon as he tried to move. Aside from smallclothes and bandages circling his head and torso, he was naked. The warmth made it obvious how long he had gone without a bath. Sticky, filthy skin, smelly hair. At least the sheets were clean.

Then sounds came. Rushing footsteps of satin shoes, gargling of hot water, whispered prayers. Someone cried, then the cry became a howl that exploded in Anders' head like a ton of gaatlok, causing him to flinch and cover his ears. It went on, endless, shapeless, like a stream of misery pouring out of a stranger's chest. Anders pressed his head into the pillow and wished nothing but for the poor bastard to shut up. No beast cries as people do - there is a terrible familiarity to those sounds, a note that regards residual humanity even in most inhuman condition. A note that every man and woman carry in their voice, from ancient alleys of Arlathan and into the golden halls of conquered Halamshiral. It is how we distinguish our kin, how we know where to run for aid. Anders knew as well as any healer. It deepened his respect for sapient life as recognition sank in that beneath those dreadful noises, beneath blood and pus and black mush of damaged organs is a person who loves, fears and yearns just as any other.

Something gulped, crackled, and the howl stopped. A few short orders were given, followed by a sound of something heavy and lifeless hitting the hard straw mattress. Anders huffed in relief and felt an instant sting of shame. But what could he do, stripped as he was, wounded, barely conscious?

He opened his eyes. Light scratched the glassy sclerae like a tough brush, plaguing him with unbearable pain.

The building he found himself in held two rows of beds on each side. Some beds were occupied but most stood empty. A large window spilled light over the floor. It was very bright. Or maybe it was just him having tunnel vision. The continuous pounding in the back of his head suggested it was possible. Maker's breath, it's like his brain was melting...

"Finally decided to rejoin the realm of mortals, have you?"

He squinted. The voice was recognizable. Same husky purring he heard before blacking out. For a second the world was swinging back and forth as his mind grasped at reality through sleepy fog and weakness. Then he made out a large shadow, a pair of horns, and an exquisite set of glimmering jeweled rings.

"You'll forgive my manners, I hope. We rarely receive such... exotic visitations."

And that is when their eyes met. Two pillars of war. One manifesting its beginning, another - its end.

The stories did not lie. She was certainly a lot to comprehend.

No, she was not two hundred feet tall and did not shoot fire out her arse, yet she still managed to fill the room - or at least a very large chair, which she was residing in comfortably with her feet crossed. Tailored folds of a drakeskin coat complemented her physique. Purpur pigment on her lips, short haircut; lots of jewelry, pierced ears, nose, lips - Herah Adaar knew how to leave an impression. And it all looked so casual on her, so mundane, as if she was not at all aware of its value. She would be just as impressive in dirty rags, for that matter. She sized Anders head to toe. She made no threatening moves, but he could feel her attention weaving about him like a golden chain. He felt like a specimen prepared for dissection. Already half-dissected, in fact. He fondled the row of stitches under his bandages.

"H-how long?.."

His voice hissed and whistled like stray wind. He coughed, each harsh exhale reverberating through the body, painful and exhausting. Adaar picked up a clay jug from the floor and leaned it against his lips. He rushed and choked twice before forcing some fresh water into his mouth.

"Almost three days now," Adaar said, patiently waiting for him to finish drinking. "You've given my healers quite the headache, but they assure me the danger has passed." She chuckled, and her jewelry rang gingerly. "Also, your head started glowing at some point. Very interesting."

Anders cursed and leaned back on stacked pillows. He was unlucky enough to show his face and was now in a deeper mess than back in that snowy cave. Justice's intervention was most unwelcome, even if it was to save his life. 

"Where's Hawke?" he forced out, much more intelligible this time.

"Right here." She pointed out another bed behind her back. Anders made a small sigh of relief. "Seems it would take more than a few boulders to crush the Champion."

"Tell me about it," he muttered with a weak smile. If anyone were to make it out alive, Hawke would.

"Your _imekari_   is alive as well. She's very strong for someone so small."

Anders blinked in bafflement.

"My... what?"

" _Imekari_. The small pointy one."

"Maeven! Is she alright?"

"Quite so, last time I checked." Her eyes narrowed as she stared right into his soul. "An intriguing young lady."

Anders bit his tongue. A possessed child would hardly mend this situation.

Adaar continued glaring. Her relaxed pose granted him a vague hint of reassurance. He was not bound, there were no guards. It appeared he was to live as a free man a little longer. If only a little.

He studied her in return. She was unlike any qunari he'd ever seen. More worldly. Although he never really got to know her kind, except that one time they burned his city and nearly slew his lover. He remembered their silent presence in Kirkwall that drove the citizens mad, their unwavering resolve that birthed equal parts fear and respect, and that bizarre philosophy of theirs that compelled the Arishok to duel Hawke - only Hawke and nobody else, for he was  _basalit-an_.

Sometimes he would cut his way through the Docks after a night in the clinic, and the only sound reaching beyond the compound walls was an echo of chanting - a song of meditation, perhaps. Waves crashed the shore, winds ground stone. And grey giants sang in unison, same words every morning. Unchanging.  _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam qun._

He didn't know its meaning back then. He did not realize this cry of endurance was, in fact, directed to the dead - and death itself. The qunari were mourning their lost home, their brethren, and themselves. They asked for certainty. Every day. For almost four years.

"So," Adaar's voice interrupted his reminiscence, "a mage who travels with the Champion has a glowing head and makes things explode. I sense a punchline coming."

"Can't my head glow for its own reasons?"

"Can't there be compromise between mages and templars?"

Her glare made him itchy. He would prefer being jailed. At least he would be rid of her probing that way.

"The mage says, 'Oppression stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.' And then they live happily ever after," he offered. Light hurt his eyes.

"That's a good punchline, but happily ever after hardly includes dropping a mountain on one's head," she laughed again. She laughed a lot in general.

Anders once asked Hawke about his impression of Inquisitor. Hawke was evasive at first, complimented her 'cheery attitude', then finally gave a straight answer. 'Clever, paranoid and extremely dangerous. Indulge your crazy concerned husband, don't mess with her.' His agitation implied fear, which was surprising. Not that Hawke never feared anything - quite the contrary. But for him to take someone seriously? Weird.

Now she was so close. He could see the wrinkles in the corners of her mouth and the chipped spots on her painted fingernails. She did not look particularly menacing. Creepy, sure, but not the cutthroat kind.

"You've been very busy," she spoke in a lazy tone. "War is two years over, and you are still everyone's problem. Strangest things happen. People show up after being presumed dead, magical artifacts turn up in checked places. And then there is kidnapping, sabotage, undeclared lyrium shipments... all unrelated at first sight, but dig a little deeper, and each investigation ends with a page from _Mage Rights Manifesto_ on my desk. It's like there's no hovel in the whole South without your name scribbled on it." Her gaze slipped down, and he suddenly became very aware of his lack of clothing. "You know, you could pretty much set Hawke for life by selling your head. It might very well be made of gold at this point."

"I always knew the Chantry loved me to bits. Literally."

"Indeed! Maybe that's why there are fifteen different people claiming to have slain you in combat. Additionally, you've been hanged, drowned, flayed alive, made Tranquil, tortured to death... and now you're here. You're either undead, very lucky, or very well-informed."

Anders couldn't help his smug grin. He fooled them all. He was smarter and faster and luckier, and he prevailed as Thedas broke its spears trying to reach him.

"I'm undead, of course. Can't you smell the decay?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't bring it up, to be honest." Adaar smirked with childish amusement. "I'll arrange for a bath. We need that golden head shined and polished, after all."

Her excitement was disturbing. Was it greed, ambition? He's seen plenty of both. It would not be surprising.

"Is that what you want, then?" He crossed his arms and tried to look defiant. "Will I be chained and dragged to Val Royeaux for judgement? Will you play nice before the new Divine so she doesn't, Maker forbid, change her mind about mages?"

Adaar let a pause hang, face a painted Orlesian mask. Then she shuddered. And then she laughed. Merry sounds rocked through the hall, flooding the poorly lit infirmary like warm ocean.

"Most Holy would _murder_ me for dumping you into her hands! She just finished pacifying a hornets' nest worth of clerics. In truth, your arrest would exacerbate our position. You may not realize how popular you've become, especially among mages... Of course if you are so eager to be tied down, I can lend you some chains from the dungeon."

Anders was not easily flustered, but her innuendo made him blush and pull the sheets up to his chest. Adaar smiled but didn't comment, choosing to save him some dignity.

In the next twenty minutes he was briefed on what seemed like everything of note in Chantry politics. Even before the Exalted Council the Divine had plans that would shake the world. Through careful manipulation and some grunt labor she acquired records formerly kept in the Circles. Details of daily procedures (such as Harrowings, rites of Tranquility, shortlists on repositories' content and et cetera); private letters, and most importantly - each mage's personal file. Most of those were destroyed during the rebellion, but the remaining ones were quite enough to incriminate half the Chantry. And, as some believed, start another war.

Leliana intended to gift the records to the College as a reparation. Within a month every mage in Southern Thedas would know who they are, where they come from, what plans their betters had on their fate. The implications had the hierarchy scared out of their wits. Leliana pulled in a few favors and Inquisition support to pacify them. And just as things were about to calm down, the Council took place, and the rumors of qunari invasion and elven conspiracy poured into already inflamed minds. They spread quickly - too quickly, as Leliana thought. She couldn't name a suspect yet but was certain the unrest has been coordinated.

Which is why Adaar spent the last week baiting clerics of Wycome to an open confrontation.

"... And that is when you decided to reform the landscape and were conveniently brought onto my lap. You see now why I don't relish your bad luck, yes?"

She stood up, fingers kneading the amputated shoulder.

"Your suspicion is commendable," she continued. "I'd be disappointed were you to show any... careless trust. But there's been enough violence, and I am nowhere near young enough to start another war. So no, you and the Champion are in no danger... for now. Do inform him, by the way - I fear he might be tempted to battle my entire army for your freedom. Bloodstains are incredibly difficult to clean, you know."

She turned on her heels. As large as she was, her moves produced no sound. Somehow it made her even creepier.

"I'd like to speak to him later. Join us if you've a mind. Oh, and a word of caution..." Her tone became sinister. "Tread lightly. Misery is a deadly sickness, though its roots aren't flesh and bone."

And then she left. The door opened and sealed.

Anders was alone, staggered and perplexed. And ashamed.

He tried to stand but tripped over; his feet were weak and refused to support him. He fell, got up, fell again. Thus he moved further, painfully slow, stopping every second. By the time he reached Hawke, his entire body was aflame. He knelt by the bedside, breathing out into the sheets.

Blue shadows lingered on Hawke's face. Messy hair scattered over the pillow. Vulnerable. In a frightening way. Only once Anders saw him this vulnerable - on the grand day he was named Champion of Kirkwall. He remembered the paralyzing horror as he watched Hawke's body jerk in the air, wide blade sticking out of it just below the diaphragm. He remembered how Hawke crawled on all four, and how he rose on one knee and that giant blade sliced a lock of hair off his head, and he did not flinch. How Arishok's eyes went wide when two sharp blades sunk deep into his vitals with a moist slopping noise. How he fell on his back, astonished and uncertain, confronted with the same unwavering power as his own. How Knight-Commander rushed through the doors, how she scanned the room, unable to believe in what just happened. How she asked, 'Is it over?' - and Hawke, blood gushing over the carpet, smiled wildly, replied 'it's over', and collapsed onto the floor.

He remembered how his magic sealed Hawke's wound, blood bubbling between his fingers. How Aveline carried Hawke back to the estate. He was small in her arms, like a child. He remembered how he slashed everything from the desk and yelled, 'More light! I need more light, my kit from the study, and clean water. Quickly!" How he hunched over his love's broken body for hours, nurturing, stitching, cutting, sealing. How he waited by the bedside while Hawke recovered, how he held those blistered hands in his, a patient guard, ever vigilant.

Hawke never learned how close he came that time. He woke up and demanded sandwiches.  
  
Something tickled Anders' fingers. He turned and was confronted with a tiny wet snout that sniffed his nails with great sense of purpose. Anders drew back in revolt. It was a rat, a stuffed, slippery creature whose fur whiffed faintly of rot and dust. It ran by before he could catch it, cautiously inspected Hawke's foot, then bared its teeth. Anders scowled and hissed.  
  
"Shoo. Get out!"  
  
The rat sized him with its cold black stare, assessing the risks. Finally, it decided not to mess with this weird unwashed human, jumped down onto the floor and vanished in a corner. Anders watched its retreat with grim satisfaction.  
  
"Blasted, you look terrible."  
  
He raised his eyes. Hawke was smiling. His look was bleary but, much to Anders' delight, he was awake.  
  
"Thank the Maker you're fine!"  
  
"I've been worse after a few pints at The Hanged Man." Hawke's smile shone even through blood and dirt. "You're disturbed. What did I miss?"

"Nothing, I'm just... nothing."

Hawke lay back on the pillows, thumbing Anders' hair. He regarded the row of empty beds on his right, spied two or three bodies on the left. He inhaled the dry scent - blood lotus and elfroot. Anders watched him and was grateful for every breath, every move, every slightest lure of life.

Time passed and no soldiers came to seize him. Half an hour later, when a qunari healer informed them the bath was ready, he was still free. He helped Hawke out of the bed; his own coordination was now firm enough to walk a straight line without falling.

Adaar came through with the bath, that's for sure. It was a spacious building conjoined with the infirmary. It had high ceilings, colonnades, painted windows. Linen towels, oak duckboards. Marble pool in the center had enchanted plates which kept the water warm for hours. Heavenly warmth engulfed their sore muscles; the smell of herbs retreated, replaced by sweet aroma of soap and rose. In midst of working hours the baths were empty and at their total disposal. Anders paused to admire the view. The irony of being executed in a clean shirt had a strange appeal to it. He carefully lowered Hawke on the edge of the pool, and the rogue clutched the deck, rocking lightly.

"Feels like I've lost all of my bones," he announced in a thoughtful tone, staring off into the water. Anders chuckled, helping him get rid of what little clothing Hawke had on.

"Three days in a coma do that to you."

He dunked one of the towels into the pool, knelt by Hawke's side and began to rub his shoulders and back gently, cautious not to soak the stitches. Streams of crystal liquid ran down Hawke's muscles, so tender and soft under Anders' touch. Cold sunshine danced upon the waves, lining his body with intricate patterns. Anders could stare forever, and if he was going to die, he would not do so without this moment.

"Caring suits you," Hawke noted. "Makes you look sweet."

"Just don't get injured on purpose because of that." Anders planted a smooch on his cheek. He drew back, but Hawke caught him by the chin and held him close, each longing kiss a hot stain, a cloud of steam.

"Oh, I don't know," he breathed, breaking up. "It might be a fun way to tease you."

"Keep jesting and I'll bite the rest of your fingers off."

"Please do."

And Anders sweeps him down and buries him in a rough embrace. The floor is warm, the air is silver; bittersweet beads of sweat glimmer on dark skin, and he gathers them with his tongue. He praises each scar and bruise. Hawke's breath deepens; he accepts the kisses with eyes closed, shattered strength now only a shadow beneath his tender expression. Vulnerable. In a terrific way. Anders runs his hands down Hawke's sides; the rogue hisses and bites his lower lip when slender fingers brush his wounds.

"Lie still," Anders orders. "I'm going to seal your wounds first. I'm sure someone finds naked entrails arousing, but I have my doubts."

Hawke laughs. "I love it when you talk dirty."

Anders wants to bite him for that joke, but he can't help laughing too.

His fingers shower Hawke's body with quiet blue shimmer. It's a little cold; Hawke shivers. The tickling of magic is pleasant. He takes a deep breath, striving to calm his arousal, focusing on Anders' face instead. Anders draws hither until their lips meet and the only thing they both can see is a faint sparkle of blue light. Hawke is impatient. His fingers dig into the mage's back, _mess me up, make it raw, fuck and finger me until I beg for mercy._

He pauses once though. He rests with eyes closed, hairy chest rising and falling. Anders doesn't mind. Three days in a coma can turn you weak, light-headed. You need a lot of rest. A lot of warmth and water and kisses.

Anders is not a kind lover. He is possessive and rough. Alive and free, if only a little longer. His grip is iron-firm on Hawke's wrists. He doesn't need force, but it is empowering to hold the Champion of Kirkwall in his grasp, to lick and bite and see how easily this monument of a man surrenders, how he whines into Anders' shoulder and asks for more. Anders sucks purpur spots on his neck, bites hard on exposed collarbones. And Hawke loves it. He loves being bitten, being forced to lie open and exposed while Anders slowly explores every sensitive spot on his body. He loves the fever, the tantalizing touch, the foreplay that stretches too long and not long enough.

He writhes, urging Anders to speed up, and earns another harsh bite. 

"You ass!.."

"Do you want me to be gentle?"

Clever fingers touching his chest, lightly brushing hardened nipples, dancing down the abs, spilling sparkles all over.

"Not in a lifetime."

Naked body is warm, trembling and ready. Anders takes time to caress Hawke's thighs, to kiss his way down the abdomen. It would be a sin not to show his appreciation for something so beautiful. Then he takes Hawke in, wet fingers pushing deep inside him at the same time, _what a perfect mess you are, my love, everyone's hero._ Hawke throws his head back, hair undone, red bitemarks punctuating his shoulders. Wild, hazy eyes. Quiet moans, barely audible. He pulls on Anders' hair, keeping him close, setting the pace. He thrusts forward with his hips; water is cool against his skin. It feels just right. Just hard enough.

It is an old dance. Nothing can be said that has not been cried, whispered, moaned through kisses. It is a dance performed in the luxurious bed in Hawke's mansion, in caves with bedrolls thrown onto bare rocks, in the Gallows (a long story), in a cursed ruin (also a long story; there was a demon involved), in hideout homes, and now - in Inquisitor's baths. They know the moves, know how to make each other blush, how to comfort and offend and reward and tease. Hawke pulls Anders up and covers his wet lips with gentle kisses, sharing the taste of himself, his hands holding, helping. Anders whimpers like a kitten, so tightly held, so tense and wanting. _Love me. Love me. Love me._

One detail escapes Hawke's attention though. There is a pool right next to him. As he rolls on his side, the mage slips from his grasp; a splash is followed by a cry of frustration and a homeric laughter that makes heaven shake.

"Who's an ass now?!"

"Oh shit, oh Maker, I'm sorry!"

Hawke can't stop laughing as his lover climbs back out, completely soaked and flustered. A moment later there is another splash, and Hawke ends up in a similar state with mouthful of water. He chokes and coughs, laughter bubbling through; Anders helps him out, smile across his face. They are happy and exhausted. And there is water everywhere. Hawke leans back, staring into the ceiling.

"Been a while, hm? We're serious people now." The word tastes funny. He chuckles to hide fear. "We have a kid!"

"She's not ours."

"No? I don't recall spirits having a return policy... speaking of which, what _did_ she do? That green glowing thingy."

"Oh, sweet Andraste... You better sit down. You're going to be very mad at me."

 

***

The storm raged beyond the gates, wind clashing against the walls like blows of a trebuchet. On the battlements, one could truly sense the sharp anger which drove nature to besiege the castle again and again. Whoever built Skyhold did so with that anger in mind: It was quiet down here in the garden, where servants tended to evergreen trees and a handful of guards shared their humble lunch. The qunari healer who informed Anders about the bath has now brought him here. Literally. Long bath made his muscles sore. The giant wrapped him in a blanket and carried him all the way down despite the very vocal protests.

Adaar was conversing with a tiny dwarven woman, a freckled beauty in light armor, armed with a bow the size of herself. As they approached, Inquisitor shot a glance at Anders, then nodded and bid goodbye to her companion. The qunari lowered Anders onto a nearby bench and stepped back - far enough to get out of earshot, but still in proximity should Adaar require his assistance. She gave him an order in qunlat, and he left without a word.

"You look better," she addressed Anders. "Enjoyed the bath, I take it?"

He practically felt her mocking intonation scratch the mask of indifference from his face.

"Yes, I, uhm... yes." 

"Good." She sat beside him, relaxed and comfortable - was there anywhere she did not feel at home?

"I wanted to catch a moment with you before Hawke and I discuss business. You are a subject of wild tales, after all."

"Such as?" He eyed her with suspicion, feeling small and defenseless near her figure.

"Depends on who you ask. Chantry loyalists describe you as a ruthless murderer, half-mad, jumping at own shadow, rivers of blood streaming under your feet. But ask a fisher, a shoemaker, a prostitute - they'll tell you a story about a soft-spoken healer in black robes who aided them when nobody else would, who gave his food away while priests feasted on sweets and had their golden dresses tailored by Antivan merchants. They tell stories of apostates in all black who protected the refugees during the war, who got slavers off their back and smugglers off their throats." Adaar's expression got dreamy, even a bit romantic. "I wonder, serah: Which one are you?"

Anders shrugged. Tales made him larger than life; he preferred the shadows. With time, however, rumors got difficult to counteract. You cannot run a spy network without slipping into notice every now and then. And when there is a slip, people start talking. Three years ago he was a ghost. Now he was an echo, hardly distinct from background noises yet audible nevertheless.

It was better not to exist. Even if some part of him longed for recognition, even if he could not help but wonder sometimes what it would be like, living an honest life, fighting openly together with his brothers and sisters. No, better not even ask.

"Maybe I'm both."

"Hawke said the same thing when I asked him." Adaar sighed with disappointment. "He said you're not at all as bards describe. I wondered why he'd never left you for that reason, why he fought beside you even after the chantry went up in flames. Why he preferred to burn an entire city rather than give up on you. I guess love makes us do terrible things, doesn't it?.."

A distant rustle drew her attention; the silent qunari was approaching them with Hawke in his arms. Inquisitor gestured for him to come closer.

" _Meraad! Iva-taam rethost shokrathari. Ebra iss basra-darvaraad shok. Ebatot basvaraad kata._ " She pointed at Anders.

To his great astonishment, the giant stepped forward and collapsed on one knee, head bowed low as if he was in presence of a deity. Only now Anders noticed the lack of horns - they were sawed off almost at the root. The qunari's face was covered in ragged scars, most visible a line of punctures around his lips.

He knew the word 'basvaraad'. It was a qunari word for templars. 'One who holds back evil', so he was told. The qunari spoke, his voice rusty like an engine that has not been used for some time.

" _Asit tal-eb. Ebra et katoh. Nehraa saarebas._ "

Adaar seemed surprised too, judging by the lifted eyebrows.

"Meraad is an admirer of sorts. He'll oversee your stay and ensure no questions are asked regarding your identity." She smiled, looking sly like a fox. "As I said, you underestimate your popularity."

Meraad nodded, though there was no telling if he understood.

Anders suddenly felt much safer.

"Now then." Adaar turned to Hawke, arms crossed, a knot of disconcert between her brows. "An explosion, a mage _imekari_ , and above all your most timely arrival. I believe you owe me some answers."


End file.
